


Slip the Surly Bonds

by Sol1056



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canon Compliant, Galaxy Garrison, Gen, Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, Pre-Kerberos Mission, Pre-Slash, platonic!Sheith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2018-12-22 21:03:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 86,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11974971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sol1056/pseuds/Sol1056
Summary: Tasked with finding and teaching fifty students with the potential to reach his caliber as a pilot, Shiro instead finds one who has the potential to surpass him. But first, he's got to get the scrawny delinquent to shape up and fly right.On impulse Shiro shoved the low table out of the way, and drew his chair closer to Keith. He bent forward, elbows on his knees, and held out his hands, palm-up. Keith was already cornered—literally and figuratively, on so many levels—and Shiro wasn't about to make that sensation worse. But he could show he came unarmed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: for those worried about the age/maturity gap (Keith is 14, Shiro is 21), their relationship is non-sexual in this story. The tags say 'Keith/Shiro' and 'Keith & Shiro', because I see their emotional intimacy and obvious affection as core requirements for future romance. (If you choose to read as purely platonic, there is enough ambiguity for that interpretation, too.) I chose both tags to indicate yes, they're 'friends', but over the course of the story that deepens into more, independent of any sexual consummation. 
> 
> Inspired by a request/prompt from @arahir.

Shiro shook off the exhaustion and hoisted his duffel bag over his shoulder. He had to check in with Iverson, first. After that, a meal, a long shower, and a good night's sleep. Normally a four-hour shuttle flight would've thrilled him, if he'd been the pilot. Instead he'd been stuck trying to fold his frame into a seat so narrow a grade-schooler would've felt the squeeze.

He'd hoped his picture would've been retired already, but no; it still hung at the end of the administrative wing's main corridor. He barely paid it a glance. He'd been happy to leave behind a self four years younger, three inches shorter, and too nervous to even smile. Shiro shook his head and kept walking.

The three seats outside Iverson's office were occupied, but it wasn't a cadet. Shiro paused at the door, glancing over the waiting trio. Two corporals stood, each with a hand on their holstered guns, as if the scrawny kid sulking in the middle seat was an actual threat. The kid slouched, one leg bent up with an ankle on the seat, the other leg kicked out before him. The kid's boots had probably last seen a shine when Shiro was a first-year cadet himself.

Shiro knocked on the commander's office door.

"Enter," Iverson called out.

"Sir," Shiro said, and set his bag down inside the door. He fished out his assignment papers. "Reporting for duty." He tried not to sound too disappointed. His CO had given him a choice of assignment, except Shiro hadn't chosen the one Command wanted for him. So they simply negated his request and sent him back to garrison, anyway.

"Have a seat, lieutenant." At first glance, Iverson hadn't changed. Dark-skinned, broad-shouldered, every inch of his uniform an officer. But his eyes looked tired, and hints of silver glinted in his dark goatee. "I was half-expecting to hear you'd flipped your CO's desk and refused the assignment."

"I've been cutting back on that, sir," Shiro replied.

Iverson grunted. "Any chance you've had a final growth spurt?"

"Still six-two, sir." The maximum height for astronauts; jet pilots could be up to six-four before they'd be disqualified.

"Well, damn it." Iverson glanced over the papers and set them aside. "Now that you've got your degree—and congratulations on the top honors—you're ready for those thousand hours of pilot-in-command?"

"And another thousand as a flight instructor, sir."

"Major weapons systems, too?"

"Not required for space training, sir."

"I'll let Hedrick know he's lost the bet."

Iverson had lost it too, then. He'd made it clear—quite often—he also wanted Shiro to put his skill to fighter jets. Hedrick had a different motive, of simple competition. Three years ahead of Shiro, Hedrick had chosen engineering after failing the space training track, and ended up back at garrison as an instructor. Shiro had privately sworn he'd go further, but even top scores meant little when he didn't have the flight hours.

Iverson gave Shiro a hard look. "Okay, kid, here's the deal. You see your picture's still out there on the wall?"

Shiro knew he'd failed to hide his reaction when Iverson chuckled.

"Second-place is still a hundred points behind you. And once you clock the required hours—" Iverson lifted a hand, forestalling any protest. "I get it, Shiro, I do. Only the willfully stupid would think once in the wind-swept heights would be enough for you. But for now, the fact is we could use about fifty more of you. I want you to find and train any pilots with the potential to cut that hundred-point gap in half, even better if you can find any who'll match it. Besides, Singh just retired, and you've got teaching experience."

For the first time since his arrival, Shiro allowed himself a slight grin. "You can't possibly be asking for multiples of _me_. Sir."

"I don't believe it myself, tell you the truth." Iverson's brows came down, and he pointed a finger at Shiro. "And don't you even _think_ about daring anyone into repeating the stunts you pulled. I find out you gave anyone the idea to thread the mittens or scald cathedral rock, your thousand hours will be spent on KP, you hear me?"

"Loud and clear, sir." Shiro swallowed the annoyance; Iverson wouldn't be so worried if Shiro hadn't given him plenty of reasons, as a cadet.

"Good." Iverson gestured at the door. "You've be taking Singh's old room, L-2 south. Pass code's your badge ID, it'll require a reset after entry. Drop your stuff off, and head to interview room three. No delays. There's someone I want you to take a look at."

Shiro kept his voice bland. "You want me to interview potentials one by one, sir?"

Iverson snorted. "Dismissed, lieutenant."

Shiro allowed himself a smile, saluted, grabbed his bag, and stepped out into an empty hall.

By the time he found the elevators, he'd regained his bearings. Nothing had really changed, except that the cadets filling the halls were a lot shorter than Shiro remembered. Most carried duffel bags; some had brought their own pillows. The older students walked slower, in twos and threes, greeting classmates. The younger ones darted back and forth, checking their dorm assignments against the cryptic numbering at each hall junction.

A week to prepare the students—and himself—and then classes would begin. Shiro spared a hope that Singh had left behind his syllabus, his teacher's copies of the textbooks, and maybe even the tests. He'd have to rework them; still, easier to revise than to write from scratch.

"Shiro," Hedrick called from behind him. "I heard you were coming back."

"Hedrick." Shiro turned, planted his feet in the middle of the hallway, and let the stream of orange-jacketed cadets split around him. Some attempted salutes, clumsy and nervous, and he could've sworn he heard a few whisper his name.

Nearly Shiro's equal in height, Hedrick had the thick blonde hair, pasty-white skin, and clear blue eyes to go with his Scandinavian heritage. All he lacked was his people's down-to-earth humility. Hedrick glanced over Shiro's dull gray duffel bag that had seen too many years of use, and the dull gray uniform barely recovered from its first pressing. His gaze drifted to the instructor's insignia on Shiro's chest. Beneath that, the meritorious aeronautical award.

Shiro buried the flinch. The brigadier general who'd pinned it to his chest had caught so much fabric, Shiro couldn't get the pin undone. It felt pretentious to leave the medal on, and ungrateful to break it in the act of trying to take it off.

"So sorry to hear of your misfortune," Hedrick said. "Making it only as far as low-earth orbit and getting sent back home." At least he'd spared Shiro his usual smarmy version of a smile.

Sent home? Garrison was hardly the worst to get that title, but there was no place with the title of 'home' that he'd ever wanted to come back to. He'd scored a prestigious student-assignment on a routine shuttle trip, and the pilot-in-command had liked Shiro enough to let him take the controls for a short stint. A year's preparation, a three-week trip, and he was back on earth. He would've stayed in the velvet black of space, if they'd let him.

Shiro stepped close enough to Hedrick to speak softly. "I don't care what you think." He leaned forward into Hedrick's space. "But if I ever hear of you turning that attitude on your students, I'll _definitely_ give you something to be sorry about."

Hedrick scowled, and Shiro stepped past him, shoulder bumping against Hedrick's just hard enough to set the other man back a half-step. Shiro may've promised Iverson his temper no longer ruled him, but Hedrick didn't need to know that.

It took twenty minutes to find his room, drop his belongings on the bed, figure out a password he could remember, set it up, and head back down to the interview room. A dark-skinned woman in a junior instructor's uniform paced the hallway, a tablet in her hands.

"Instructor Shirogane?" She held out the tablet. "This is the documentation for the interviewee. I'm Instructor Mbabazi."

"Good to meet you. Just call me Shiro, though. Everyone else does." He thumbed the tablet, and it opened to a list of documents. Three caught his eye immediately: court orders. He stifled a sigh. If he had anything like a parental-figure in his life, it was probably Iverson, after four years of the man doing his best to beat sense into a younger, more headstrong Shiro. But damn if the man's meddling didn't also get on Shiro's nerves, sometimes. "Are we co-interviewers?"

"No, but I'd like to hear your thoughts, afterwards. I'm the floor manager, too, so I wanted to know what I'd be up against with this one." She saluted as she left, a dimple flashing on one cheek.

Shiro rapped gently on the door, then opened it to find the corporals from earlier. One stood behind the boy; the other stood on the opposite side of the room, keeping the boy in his sights. The boy sat in a metal chair before a table, and his shoulders hunched at Shiro's footsteps. He didn't turn, but there was no mistaking his unease at having his back to the door.

Shiro settled into the seat opposite and set the tablet down before him. The boy looked somewhere between twelve and fourteen. His black long-sleeved shirt hung on his scrawny frame, dark messy bangs hiding his face. What little skin was exposed was softly golden, but lacking the ruddy tint that signaled a child of the local tribes. The kid's shoulders hunched as he sensed Shiro's study, and his arms tightened protectively over his chest.

There was no need to force the kid to make eye contact. Nor was there need to have armed military police lurking in the room's corners. Although truthfully, Shiro didn't care to have them at his back, either.

"Gentlemen," Shiro said, and motioned to the door.

"We're supposed to stay," one said.

"Is—" Shiro checked the tablet's screen. "Keith—that dangerous?"

"He's a fast little bastard. It'll take both of us to catch him."

It had been a long day already. Shiro's patience was wearing thin. "I'll make sure there's no need, then. Dismissed." He waited, wondering whether he'd actually need to pull rank. The two corporals studied him, then the sullen kid, and shrugged. At least they had the decency to close the door quietly behind them.

Shiro ran a hand through his hair, pulling at his bangs, and settled an elbow on the table as he scrolled through the tablet's documents. He made no attempt to look at the kid—Keith—nor speak. Experience said it was best to let the kid observe without being watched in return.

Foster homes, juvenile delinquency, school records. None of it looked particularly illuminating, or all that unique. One file was a video, a jumpy recording of a police chase. Shiro buried the amusement. Looked like the kid had either stolen the desert hover—or he'd had the bad luck to annoy cops willing to assume he'd stolen it—and promptly taken them on a wild goose chase.

The police had kept up until the kid had pulled an especially reckless maneuver through the middle of traffic. Shiro couldn't stop the whistle, impressed at the kid's ability to throw his entire body into a far lean, catch the hover's left wing on a car's hood, and spin the craft around to come back directly at the police. The video jumped as the cop frantically tried to keep up. Shiro had seen enough. He swiped the tablet off, and set it down on the table, thinking.

Did the judge have any clue as to the potential, there? Possibly. The military had been testing fighter jets in this region for over two hundred years. Multi-generational military families were thick on the ground, thanks to that. Or perhaps the judge had simply been tired of letting the system eat yet another kid alive, and hoped military school would give the boy direction.

Could the boy keep up, though? A good number of the students were from military or scientific families, with a smaller percentage international hopefuls. Not everyone went onto aeronautical training, but enough did, and there was need of them. It wasn't an easy path, though. Competition was fierce, and failure—as much as success—was always public. It wasn't as strict as a true military institute, or ROTC, but it had enough of the trappings that a wild kid like Keith might find it suffocating.

On the other hand, Shiro _really_ wanted to see what this kid would do in the flight simulator.

 

 

 

Keith wasn't stupid enough to relax just because the uniform had sent the cops away. The man was either supremely confident that he could outrun Keith, or supremely stupid. A minute passed, maybe three, maybe longer, and still the man said nothing, just scrolled idly on the tablet. Probably Keith's juvie record. It was the only thing interesting about him, in most adults' opinions.

The man looked familiar, somehow. Chinese, Japanese, but a lot taller than anyone Asian that Keith had ever met. Long nose, long jaw. Dark hair shaved close on the sides, long enough on top that his bangs fell across his forehead. Strangest of all, the man didn't fidget, didn't twitch. He'd finger-combed his hair when he'd first sat down, but since then, the only thing that moved were two fingers across the tablet's surface.

Until the man raised the tablet, tilted his head a little as he read, and the image clicked in Keith's head. The cops had stopped to hand Keith's small bag of belongings over to security and confirm Keith's so-called appointment with the head guy—Commander-something, the asshole who'd taken one look at Keith and left him to rot, nothing new there. But before that, in the main hall, he'd been stuck staring at a line of pictures, all students in those ugly-ass uniforms. The last one on the end looked sort of like this guy. Hair a little longer, face younger…

Oh, this man's younger brother, probably. One of those military families, sending off every kid in turn. All gung-ho and rah-rah about someday flying off to space, or testing fighter jets, all the things Keith would never get to do. Not with his record.

The man smiled at something on the tablet. Just a twist of his lips but his brows quirked, and it set Keith instantly on edge. At the same time… god, that poor younger brother. Had to be tough trying to keep up. Which was kind of stupid, really. Why people knocked themselves out against something that'd never happen, knowing they'd always lose, Keith didn't know. And it was obvious no younger brother could ever compete. Even if the man was clearly far too full of himself, wearing some stupid medal on his chest like he wanted everyone to know he was someone special.

Keith considered pretending to fall asleep, except now that he'd been as unmoving as the man for so long, it felt almost like blinking if he moved first. Maybe the idea was just to bore him to death. When the man abruptly shut off the tablet and stood up, Keith almost gave himself away by jumping visibly. He held onto his nerves by sheer willpower.

"I'm Shiro," the man said. Calm, but that curl was back on his lips. "There's something I want to show you."

Keith tensed, slid one foot under him to spring backwards. He squeezed and released his hands, getting feeling into his arms. But Shiro only walked around the table and opened the door. Keith stared at him, uncertain.

"Keith, right? Or do you prefer Jones?"

Keith nearly snarled at the unwelcome name. Three foster-families back, and that nightmare continued to follow him.

Shiro held out his hand. "Keith, then. Come on. Everyone should be in the cafeteria right now, so we'll have the place to ourselves."

The offered hand looked strong, calloused, a few scars making white streaks across the palm. Keith stood, keeping the chair between himself and Shiro. If nothing else, it'd be handy for throwing at the man. Shiro didn't move, and his hand remained out.

Wary, Keith stepped around the chair, angling his body to keep Shiro before him. It meant stepping sideways towards the doorway, and if anyone was right outside, they'd be behind him. He took another careful side-step until his back bumped against the doorframe. He leaned just enough for a quick glance—empty hallway, both directions. He rocked his weight onto the balls of his feet, bent his knees a fraction to offset the change.

Shiro's hand clapped down on his shoulder. Keith's fists clenched instinctively, but Shiro's grip was relaxed. The strange sensation of Shiro's hand simply resting, lightly, was enough to throw Keith off-balance in every possible way.

Shiro shoved him—gently—out the door. "This way." He didn't let go of Keith.

Keith struggled to convince himself to shake the man off, but the most he could manage was twitching his shoulder. Shiro's hand remained. There was something a little—no, it was best to just decide he didn't like it, but had no choice but to put up with it. Better all around, that way.

He didn't miss how the man walked to his left and a little behind, or that the solid weight of Shiro's hand could instantly turn into a death-grip if Keith bolted. He'd need a distraction, and then there'd be getting past the front security. After that, a race to the front gates, and a hundred miles of desert in every direction. All Keith had to do was reach the desert and he could go to ground. He'd never make that mistake of going into town for any reason, he knew that much.

They weren't quite to the next intersecting hallway when Shiro started talking. Not loudly, but too easily for Keith's comfort. It sounded like a tour, or a lecture, or a guidance counselor trying to be friendly. At least Shiro had stepped up closer to him, so Keith didn't feel so much like he was being pushed along, but that made their height-difference even more stark. Did the top of his head even reach Shiro's shoulder? The man was just too tall. Lean, not some muscle-bound jarhead, but still. Keith forced himself to look ahead, refusing to grant Shiro's weird lecture any reaction.

"I hope you're not one for fish," Shiro said, as if it didn't matter that Keith contributed nothing to the conversation. "All we get out here is pork and chicken. At least two of the cooks are vegetarian, so if you prefer that, the cafeteria will always have options—"

Two female instructors came around the corner, chatting quietly. Both saluted to Shiro, who nodded, said names Keith didn't catch.

He was too focused on Shiro's hand again, and the sudden pressure. It wasn't the death-grip teachers or cops used to march—or drag—him. It was a subtle pressure from Shiro's thumb and pinky. As if turning Keith's shoulder, a fraction, to the right. Mystified but moving on instinct, Keith took a right at the corner.

Shiro fell silent, only speaking up again when someone else approached. Again that subtle pressure, guiding Keith to the left, then forward, then to the right. The building was a maze and he'd lost track, baffled by the way Shiro seemed determined to fool everyone into thinking Keith had the remotest clue where he was, or where he was going. There was no reason Shiro should care. Must be a new trick in the guidance counselor's handbook.

When they approached two doors at the end of a broad hall, Shiro swept his badge across a small box, and the doors swung open to a massive circular room. Keith gaped, remembered his cool, and shut his mouth just as Shiro's palm pressed against his shoulder blade. Keith stepped forward.

The doors slid shut behind them, and Shiro let go. The vast room was chilly. In the absence of that touch, Keith suddenly felt twice as cold.

"This way." For the first time, Shiro took the lead, gesturing at the massive box-like structure in the middle of the room. About the size of a container for an eighteen-wheeler, it hung suspended on two horizontal bars. The ends of the bars rested on a steel rail encircling the entire contraption. "This is one of the two flight simulators."

Keith had held his tongue long enough. "What's the other one?"

"A smaller unit, for fighter jets." Shiro halted by the steel railing, facing what looked like the back of the container. Another small box hung there, and Shiro swiped his badge again, punching in a series of numbers too fast for Keith to catch. "This one's for cargo and space flight." A panel telescoped out from the floor, stretching into a bridge to the simulator-box. "It's where everyone starts."

When Keith didn't move, Shiro clapped him on the shoulder, enough to almost push Keith over. "Come on. Unless you're scared?"

"I'm not scared!" Fury propelled Keith across the catwalk, into the container.

The doors slid shut behind them with a soft whoosh, and the interior filled with soft light from consoles at the front, sides, and over the main view-screen. Shiro stood at the front before a wide central screen, flanked by smaller side-screens. One seat was to Shiro's left, and the low lighting along the floor led Keith to Shiro's side.

Shiro bent over the main console, typing rapidly on a small keyboard. In the console's blue lights, Shiro's expression was amused. White text flickered on a small black screen attached to the keyboard. After a moment, Shiro clicked a final key and the entire console lit up. The screens flared into life, brightening the interior.

The view-screens showed a highway at night. Two wide lanes in each direction, empty of cars. Anonymous buildings and parking lots lined either side, spotlit by street lamps. It was as if the cargo-box had been parked on the side of the road, waiting.

"Take a seat." Shiro pointed to the one seat at the front.

Keith hesitated. It had to be a trick.

The lights would come on, and everything would twist around to be Keith's fault. Off to detention he'd go, and the judge would laugh in his face. Sometimes he didn't get why they just didn't stamp 'lost cause' on his forehead and throw him away already.

But Shiro waited, patient and still. Keith studied the central console coming to life with an array of circles, boxes, readouts. The two side-sticks were like vertical versions of his last foster-home's beat-up desert hover, but that was the only thing familiar. That, and the view of a broad street through an empty desert town.

"Keith," Shiro said. Flat, but not angry, not upset. Expectant, somehow. Like he knew how much Keith's fingers itched to touch everything, and the idea made Keith suddenly angry.

Fine, even if it was a trick, just one more asshole dangling a chance in his face only to snatch it away. Keith braced himself for the disappointment, swallowed it, and sat down.

When Shiro leaned over him, reaching around to Keith's hip, Keith instinctively recoiled. Shiro either didn't notice or didn't care. He just pulled the harness across Keith's chest, latching and tightening it with the efficient moves of someone who could do it blindfolded. Or in his sleep.

"Alright, hands on the controls." Shiro braced one hand on the seat back and pointed out the console displays. "This is set up as a desert racer. Magnetic compass, stall indicator, airspeed, altimeter, fuel, vertical speed, gyro, and bearing indicator."

Keith studied three numbers in the central console's upper corner. "What are those?"

"Totals from the last simulation. That'll reset once you start moving." Shiro stayed leaning over the seat, too casual for Keith's nerves. "Go ahead. Pull out."

The side-sticks were bulkier than a desert hover's handles. Keith adjusted his grip and wondered how Shiro thought this was anything like the real thing. He was sitting in a box easily ten times the size of a racer's cockpit, even though the one time he'd ever flown a racer, he'd been surprised by how clunky it'd felt. A hover was far more maneuverable. Light, agile, and damn fast given its smaller size. Of course, a racer would beat it in the straightaway, but Keith had never had much interest in the straightaway.

He tightened his grip, throttled the engine, and slowly pulled the sticks back. The entire box seemed to rise up, startling him with the bizarre sensation. It felt exactly like the real thing, or maybe it didn't and it was his own ignorance. Best not to say anything either way, just in case. The view across the screens shifted as the racer rose up to its off-ground height.

Keith leaned into the move, and the racer accelerated. A sudden bang startled him into almost letting go, and the entire cargo-box shook hard. A bright green racer went speeding past on the forward screen.

"Can't have a racer without someone to race against." Shiro had swayed with the motion but kept his place. "Well? Are you going to let him get away with that?"

Like hell. Keith slammed the sticks down, twisted the throttle, and the racer leapt forward. The motion pushed him against the seat. Keith gained on the green racer until he was less than a half-length, closer, then running even. Keith grinned and twisted the right side-stick. It slammed his racer around—and the cargo-box swung violently with the motion. His racer's right-hand propeller casing banged against the green racer's tail, and the green racer arced sharply upwards. With a screech of metal as its tail dragged across concrete, the racer flipped backwards.

Keith gunned it and spun his racer away, but he wasn't fast enough. The green racer came down on Keith. The entire cargo-box shook.

The screens went dark and the interior light came up. Shiro reached past Keith to tap on the keyboard, but Keith shook his head.

"No," he said. "I was just getting the hang of it."

After a pause, Shiro tapped on a small square on the console. The three numbers in the upper-right changed. The first was now 02. The second number had dropped from 17 to 00, and the third number from 050 to 015. Keith puzzled over that only long enough for the screens to reset with the empty street view. This time he wouldn't let some green racer get the jump on him.

Instead, something slammed into him from behind, and a blue racer spun around, righted itself, and took off. The second number on the readout changed from 00 to -01. Keith grunted, certain he wasn't out of the race if the screens remained on. He tore after the blue racer, determined to take it out and move ahead.

He'd only ever seen racers dragging in the movies—it was usually a night-time race, far away from nosy cops. Not exactly the kind of thing a fourteen-year-old kid could get to see easily, though sometimes he'd heard the engines revving along the highway, off in the distance. But the basic idea wasn't that hard to grasp.

He spared a heartbeat's curiosity as to why a space academy would have a simulation for illegal street racing, and dismissed it. The blue racer was fast, but Keith had figured out a few tricks from his one time on a hover. A racer was just a bigger version of the same.

When he crashed and the lights came up again, Keith didn't wait. Before Shiro could react, he slapped the console's square, reset the race, and tried again.

 

 

 

Shiro held his tongue and simply observed. It was tempting to instruct, but more important to see the kid's instincts, untutored. Besides, there was a certain pleasure in watching someone crash, pick himself back up again, and figure it out. Just like Shiro had once done.

He'd been privately surprised the program hadn't been erased in his absence. Nor had anyone used it; he still remembered his top score, and that hadn't been overwritten. Perhaps the comms engineer he'd bribed with astrophysics tutoring had found a way to install the bootleg simulation as a default. Or maybe Shiro's long-held suspicion was right, and Iverson knew more than he let on.

Shiro lost count of the resets, but Keith finally managed to complete the race in one piece. Third place with a time of 13:37:05, and a smash-score of 8. His burn score had maxed at 99 about halfway through the race. Shiro had expected that, so he'd overridden the fuel limits. Next time, he wouldn't.

The boy's hair was plastered to his skull with sweat, and he carefully unhooked his fingers, one at a time, from around the sticks. He panted, open-mouthed, bent over as best he could in the straps, and gave a tiny laugh.

Shiro caught him by the shoulder and squeezed, heartened when Keith didn't flinch away. "Good job," he said, and closed down the simulation. "Your stuff's at the main office, right? Let's pick it up and find your room. You'll probably want a shower before dinner."

"No," Keith said, uncurling enough to reach the sticks. "That second number is crashes, right? Whoever did it last managed seventeen. I want to go again."

"No, that's enough for now. I can book time for you to run the simulation again, but until you're stronger, an hour's your limit."

"Then I still have fifteen minutes!" Keith tightened his grip on the side-sticks.

"Keith. We've been in here for three hours."

The boy's mouth fell open. "You're lying."

Shiro pushed back his sleeve and tapped his watch for Keith to see. Almost 1700 hours. Keith stared, then closed his mouth and let go of the sticks.

Shiro tapped his watch again, shutting off the display and its reminder of forty-seven emails and five text messages. His watch must've synced already with the garrison's system, so the emails were probably class-related. The text messages, though, were likely Iverson demanding an update.

"Let's go." Shiro ushered Keith from the simulator, closed out the system, retracted the bridge, and guided the kid towards the exit closest to the first-year dormitory wing.

Iverson had asked him to find fifty potential pilots who could close that distance to Shiro's graduation flight scores. Shiro had never been arrogant about his skills, but he'd long ago accepted that he had no competition, and he'd done his best to hide his bemusement at Iverson's request.

He wondered how Iverson would react at the news, because Shiro was certain he hadn't just found someone who might match him in skill.

He'd found someone who would definitely, someday, beat him.

 

 

 

* * *

 

oh! oh! look at the amazing art [tealkatana](https://tealkatana.tumblr.com/) did for the final scene in this chapter: [so gorgeous](https://tealkatana.tumblr.com/post/169013906811/i-say-this-for-every-fic-but-seriously-slip-the)!


	2. Chapter 2

Keith was up before dawn, dressed and ready. Waiting for noise in the halls. Enough people he'd be one more face in the crowd. Find his way, stroll out like any other student. He just had to wait.

He hated waiting.

He'd looked for distractions and escapes the night before, and found none. Shiro never gave him any opportunities. Hustled along with side-errands until they reached the cafeteria, where at least Shiro led the way instead of guiding Keith. Of course Shiro would know so many people, but despite Keith's gnawing worry, Shiro had neither introduced him nor called attention to him.

The cafeteria's noise and chaos had been overwhelming. Keith had no choice but to stick close to Shiro, torn between never letting Shiro out of his sight, and the growing fear that he'd failed in the flight simulator. He had no idea how he'd choked food down, with his stomach doing flips as he waited for Shiro to tell him to get lost.

Or maybe that's what Shiro had intended when he left Keith with another instructor. Keith got put in a small windowless room with a single desk and a clunky laptop. Entrance tests, Shiro said. The other instructor waited outside. Keith had toyed with answering every question wrong, but his pride wouldn't let him. The problem was, he was pretty sure he got most of the questions wrong anyway. He tried, but it felt like one more failure, and he hated himself for even caring that Shiro would be disappointed when he saw Keith's scores.

He had to leave. Always better to leave. Anything was better than being left.

So he waited, watching the sunrise across the desert. Get to the gate, look casual, then bolt. It'd mean he'd only take what he could carry without raising suspicion, but it wouldn't be the first time.

When someone knocked on his door, Keith froze.

"Keith!" Shiro's voice, too cheerful for the hour. "It's Shiro! Get up, get dressed, if we're first to the cafeteria, we'll get donuts before they run out."

Keith put a foot down to stand up, caught himself, and sat back down. Maybe Shiro would think he was asleep. Or in the shower. Or gone. Didn't matter.

Shiro banged on the door, a little harder. "Let's go, Keith. I got us two hours on the fighter jet simulator. Come on, time to move!"

The fancy one, the one in the south wing, the one only senior students and instructors could access. Keith hadn't seen the younger version of Shiro who was such a hot-shot pilot, but a few of the instructors at dinner had made comments that sounded like Shiro was no slouch himself. Keith had been dying to ask, and couldn't bring himself to remind anyone he was still there. As long as he stayed quiet, he could stay.

Keith crept to the door. Footsteps on the other side, then a softer sound, not quite a thump. Patting the door? Shiro hadn't left, yet. Keith put a hand to the door, hesitating.

Two hours on the fighter jet simulator… when would he get a chance like that, again? Take advantage now before Shiro realized—like everyone always did—that Keith wasn't worth knowing, having, being around.

But then footsteps, leading away. Keith's stomach flipped over. Shiro hadn't humiliated him in front of anyone, hadn't even been annoyed when Keith had so little to say. Even waited for what must've been a mind-numbingly boring three hours while Keith did nothing but crash and fail, over and over.

Keith tore open the door and threw himself into the hallway. No Shiro to the right. He spun in place, almost tripped over his own feet and lunged in the opposite direction. He ran right into Shiro's chest.

"You're up," was all Shiro said.

Keith stepped back, face heating, and waited for Shiro's hand, that leash-like feeling. Once it was clear Keith wouldn't fall, Shiro lowered his hands, and didn't touch Keith again. Didn't matter. It wasn't important, and hunger was the only reason Keith's stomach kept flipping over.

He stayed at Shiro's elbow, though. Shiro did the same as the day before, explaining what lay down that hallway, or through those doors. Keith just had to pay attention, and he'd figure out the best route and time to get out.

Until then, there were donuts, and after that, the flight simulator. Which didn't end up being right away—first Shiro took him to the basement to visit a tiny clothing-store and dry-cleaner to get fitted for his uniform. Keith debated refusing, fighting, and ending the whole charade. The only other option was to put on the ugly uniform.

But if he did, next would be the flight simulator. And maybe—the realization surprised him—maybe a uniform wasn't really that bad. He could put up with it for a little while.

Even if it was all a trick, the uniform wasn't as constricting as he'd feared. Not heavy enough to be stifling, not so light he'd wreck it easily. The boots, though—so much nicer than his old ones. He'd definitely be leaving his old ones behind, and taking these when he finally broke himself out.

Which he would. After he got to fly in the simulator. Just once.

 

 

 

Shiro leaned his elbows on the conference room table. Keith's scores and statistics were displayed on the large screen at the end of the room. Commander LaSalle, Iverson's counterpart for first- and second-years, scrolled through the individual sections, pausing at the physical exam and the IQ-personality test. Dr. Dunkirk, chair of the pedagogy board, had his head down over his own tablet. Mbabazi was there as the floor-counselor for Keith's dormitory section. Shiro was there because he hadn't given them a choice to refuse his participation.

"He's at least two grades behind on composition and reading comprehension," Dunkirk muttered. Despite his Anglo surname, there was no mistaking his ancestry: sun-coppered skin, blue-black hair, and a build more wide than tall. "There are slots open in the first-year classes, and he'd still need tutoring."

"He's borderline on math." Mbabazi pushed a window across the tablet; it scooted in from the right-hand side of the large display. "He's only one point into the green. I'd recommend pre-algebra, rather than Algebra 1."

Shiro studied the screen. "I don't think Keith's going to take it well if we hold him back."

"He's going to have to set aside his pride," LaSalle said. A brown-skinned woman who kept her hair in a pixie cut that Shiro had never had the guts to admit he thought adorable, Commander LaSalle was still a force to be reckoned with. "I'm not losing a kid with his skills because he can't keep up in classes. If he needs the extra year, that's what we'll do."

"And if first-year isn't enough to challenge him, it'll go worse, ma'am."

"I really think," Dunkirk interjected, "first-year coursework will be a challenge for him. He's got a lot of catching up to do. And I don't mean only in the academic sense. He'll be on the younger end of the second-years. If we put him in first-year, he'll be one of the oldest. He won't feel so much like he's at the end of the pack, then."

Shiro wasn't convinced. "He's aware normally he'd be in second-year." Keith had asked twice about his class schedule, which Shiro had figured out was the equivalent of six complaints from anyone else.  

LaSalle folded her hands and sat back. "I know you think we're hardasses, but Iverson and I aren't here to set any kid up for failure. I just think he has a better chance of making it if we don't drop everything on his head at once."

"Honestly, ma'am, I think the only chance he has of making it is if we _do_ drop everything on him at once," Shiro said.

"Duly noted," LaSalle said. "Mbabazi? Thoughts?"

Mbabazi said nothing at first, busy closing each window until all that remained was Keith's ID photo and a summary of his psychological exam. "I would like to say he should be first-year. But I also think if we make it too easy for him—or he thinks we are—he'll just cause trouble." She shut down the screen. "No fights yet, but I can feel the tension. If he's second-year, he'll be starting self-defense classes, too."

"Keep him so busy he doesn't have time to fight?" Dunkirk rubbed his chin. "Shiro, this is a major time commitment. Mentoring this kid will eat into your hours in the air, on top of teaching senior physics and geometry."

Shiro mulled it over. He was the only other instructor with an open slot in his schedule, and the geometry sections needed the help. Iverson had assured him it'd only be for the first quarter at most, just long enough for garrison to pull an assignment for another teacher. Plus he'd agreed to assist with the self-defense classes for second- and third-years. Afternoons would be for simulator flight time with the upperclass students; that would count towards his pilot-instructor hours. He was looking forward the most to the fighter jet team, hand-picked students who'd get individual and group instruction, once a week. He'd already added Keith's name on the roster, on the faith that Keith would qualify.

"I know what Iverson tasked you with," LaSalle said. "I agree, it'd be great if you're right and we've another with your skills, but I'm not willing to sacrifice a chance at those fifty for the sake of one that we aren't even sure can handle it. I'm certainly not willing to sacrifice you for the sake of any of them."

"I appreciate that, ma'am, but—" Shiro couldn't shake the feeling. "I think we should give him the choice."

Dunkirk's brows went up. "He's a kid. He's hardly in a position to know what's best for him."

"Maybe not. But it's his life we're talking about. He should get some say." Shiro caught LaSalle's exhausted look, and rolled one shoulder, a hint of a shrug. "More than he's had so far, ma'am."

The commander pondered that for a few moments, and finally nodded. "Very well, but if he chooses second-year, it's on you."

"Understood, ma'am."

"Dismissed. And send in Harris. Mbabazi, pull up the details on the next kid."

Shiro excused himself from the conference room, waved Harris in, and headed for the main auditorium. The new students had a week of orientation, and were doubtless falling asleep while Montgomery droned about uniform care, cafeteria rules, and laundry tips. A half-dozen instructors were arrayed along the back wall; Shiro quietly greeted a few familiar faces, and slipped into place beside Instructor Begay, the lead comms programming instructor.

"Welcome back, Shiro." Begay had gone for space training, but halfway through he'd had a final growth spurt and ended up six-five. "Never expected to see you back."

Shiro spoke in an undertone so only Begay could hear. "Never planned on coming back."

"Iverson?"

"Who else."

"At least you're still short enough to be an astronaut." Begay nudged Shiro. "Careful what you eat, though. Iverson might put growth hormones in it."

Shiro grinned and continued checking each row of orange-coated cadets. He relaxed once he found Keith, sitting in the first seat of the eighth row. The kid was awake, at least, or very good at faking it. He'd propped his chin on his fist, leaning as far away as he could from the person next to him.

Shiro leaned over to whisper to Begay, "any trouble?"

"The usual hotshots, nothing major." Begay shrugged. "Give 'em another week. We'll have some bloody noses, they'll sort it out, and it'll be just another school year."

Shiro had a feeling Keith would be in a few of those fights. He was also pretty confident Keith wouldn't throw the first punch. The boy still said little, but Shiro had a feeling Keith used tone as a weapon, almost more than his words. It was the kind of skill Shiro privately admired; at that age, he'd preferred to do all his talking with his fists.

When the orientation ended, Shiro waded through the crowd to find Keith, making sure Keith knew he was there before clapping a hand to Keith's shoulder. He looked around for the instructor in charge of Keith's group, and found himself face-to-face with an old friend.

"Taka," the man said, and opened his arms. "I heard you'd be here for your flight hours."

Shiro accepted the hug, pleased to find he'd finally become Roy's equal in height and was no longer stuck hugging the man's waist. Roy may've walked with a limp and required a back brace after the injuries that retired him from piloting, but he could still hug with a death-grip. Shiro was on the verge of gasping for air when Roy finally let him go.

Roy kept a hand on Shiro's shoulder, gripping tight. He was sunburnt across the cheeks, same shaggy golden hair, strong grip, and piercing pale-blue eyes that missed nothing.

"Just got back from headquarters at oh-dark-thirty," Roy said. Keith had stepped up close to Shiro's elbow, and Roy paused, studying something in Shiro's expression. "Once I've gotten over the time difference, you'll join us for dinner soon. Claudia's orders. Are you heading to lunch now?"

"In a bit, yes." Shiro put a hand on Keith's shoulder, and the echoes struck him as some peculiar mix of amusing and comforting. His mentor, to him, to Keith. "First I need to borrow Keith for a bit, sir."

"Ah," Roy said, and grinned. He thumped Shiro on the shoulder hard enough to almost make Shiro stagger. "Any chance you'll join a jam session, now? Bring him along, too."

Shiro sighed, but the attempt was probably ruined by his smile. "I'll let you know if we do, sir. Come on, Keith."

Once they'd threaded their way through the departing students and into the hallway, Shiro led the way to the administrative wing. The conversation room should be unoccupied at this time of day, and he didn't care to remind Keith of their first meeting by taking him to an interview room. They were halfway there before Keith finally spoke up.

"Who was he." Keith's tone was a blend of soft question and statement, as if leaving room for Shiro to ignore it as thoughts half-spoken aloud.

"Major Föcker, retired. He was my instructor for flight training." Shiro was amused to see Keith's brows come down, and wondered what the boy was thinking. "He teaches flight disaster preparedness, along with electives on history and archaeology."

Keith considered that for a bit, then: "He didn't call you Shiro."

How to explain that, without making Keith feel like a line was being drawn that no one else could ever cross? He chose instead to evade. "If I have any skills as a pilot, it's thanks to him."    

There was no reason to keep his hand on Keith's shoulder, but he was starting to get a sense of why Roy had always done that to him. No matter Keith's expression, it was much harder to hide physical reactions. At the signage for the administrative wing, Keith's shoulders abruptly tightened; his muscles felt like steel whipcords through the lightweight student jacket. Shiro squeezed, once, lightly, to reassure.

"Good, it's empty." Shiro badged them in, not letting go of Keith until the door was shut behind them. The room wasn't much larger than a first-year residence, four comfortable chairs with a low table between them. "Have a seat."

Keith perched in the chair, then sank down into a slouch. He crossed his arms, then uncrossed them, and then back again. It wasn't a perfect slouch, either; his chest was gently concave, as if curving around something he wanted to protect. Shiro wasn't sure what it all meant, but it had to be a good sign that Keith wasn't shifting his weight to run.

"This afternoon you'll be meeting with an advisor who'll go over your class schedule with you," Shiro began. That should alleviate Keith's fear that this meeting was prelude to expulsion. "The first question is what year to put you in."

"I thought I'm second-year."

"You would be, by age. But from your test results, there were gaps in your education. Commander LaSalle is concerned that second-year coursework would be too much. Those gaps mean you'd effectively be building new knowledge on an incomplete foundation."

Keith's shoulders fell a fraction; his brows came down, and he looked away. It was as if all the fight had drained from him. "Oh. I understand."

Did he? Shiro swallowed the unreasonable irritation at Keith conceding so easily. On impulse Shiro shoved the low table out of the way, and drew his chair closer to Keith. He bent forward, elbows on his knees, and held out his hands, palm-up. Keith was already cornered—literally and figuratively, on so many levels—and Shiro wasn't about to make that sensation worse. But he could show he came unarmed.

"It's not a problem, Shiro." Keith's expression remained downcast, though.

"It _is_ a problem, if you're going to accept everyone else underestimating you."

Keith's eyes opened wide momentarily, his gaze darting up to Shiro's face. He flinched, and looked away. His arms slid up his belly to cross over his chest, a defensive maneuver that matched the slight jut of his jaw.

Shiro knew LaSalle and Dunkirk had good reason to look only at the final tallies; there were twenty students in Mbabazi's floor, and each one had to be reviewed. Some would be rubber-stamped, others considered more carefully. Mbabazi was only one of five counselors on her floor, and there were seven floors altogether. By the end of the week, between them, Iverson and LaSalle would review every single one of the seven hundred students.

But as Keith's self-declared mentor, Shiro had paid attention to a different aspect of Keith's test results, and he'd drawn a different conclusion. Keith was neither that far behind his grade, nor stupid. He'd answered more advanced questions with ease. The key was that each of those questions related directly to some interest of his. What didn't interest him, he ignored; what did interest him, he could clearly devour with a single-minded purpose.

All Shiro had to do was figure out how to get Keith to spend some of that energy on areas that interested Keith less. Or—possibly a taller order—get Keith interested in more than just a few limited topics.

"Keith." Shiro waited until Keith looked his way, and he leaned in, holding Keith's attention. "If you want to do second year, it'll mean we'll need to meet in the evenings, and I can tutor you, or I'll find someone who can. But it's your choice."

"If my scores—" Keith shifted, uneasy, gaze flickering away and back again. "If they say I can't do it, then I guess—"

"Listen to me, Keith. I'm saying if _you_ think you can do it, then I've got your back. I'll make sure they put you in second year."

"But—" Keith's arms tightened, and his shoulders went up. "You don't have to do that."

"Yes, I do. Because I believe you can do it, and prove them all wrong."

"There's no—" Keith broke off, frustration clear. "I'll just screw it all up."

"Of course you'll crash. Everyone does. But then you pick yourself up, figure out what you need to do different, and keep going." Shiro gave him a rueful smile. "It still doesn't change the fact that if you're willing to try, I'll make sure they let you."

Keith was silent for a long time, gaze searching Shiro's face. Distrusting, suspicious, but there were glimmers of a frightened hope in the set of the boy's shoulders.

Shiro held perfectly still, waiting.

"Why are you doing this?" Keith's brows furrowed. Either the concept was alien to him, or he was busy cataloging all the ways everything would go wrong.

"Because I believe you can do it."

Keith gave a quiet snort. "You don't know me."

"In the particulars? You're right. But in general? I think I've got a pretty good sense."

"And when I fail?"

"Then I'll help you get your feet under you, so you can try again." Shiro dared a small smile. "But I'll still believe in you. And I'll always have your back."

Keith opened his mouth, closed it, looked away. He cycled through that maybe three times before stuttering to a halt.

"I'm not saying it'll be easy." Shiro straightened up slightly, and clasped his hands. "It's going to take a lot of work. I'll make arrangements for a study room at the library, nightly. You do your homework while I grade, and if you have questions, I'll be there. I have an open-door policy, so some of my other students may join us, but you'll always have top priority."

Emotions flickered across Keith's face, too quick to catch. His psychological exam might have said 'withdrawn and self-isolated' but Shiro suspect the interviewer simply hadn't paid close attention. Every one of Keith's emotions were on the surface; the problem was the boy was as mercurial in feeling as he was instinctive when flying. If anyone else—including Shiro—could process an emotion, maybe two, in the blink of an eye, Keith burned through twenty, and processed none.

"Here's the deal, though." Shiro made a note to avoid that word in the future; Keith had flinched slightly. "First-years are spent on general education. World history, world literature, composition, earth sciences, political science."

Keith's response was predictably disdainful. "What's the good of that."

"Garrison may be focused on space training, but it still sees value in well-rounded students. I'll tutor you, regardless. That offer stands. But I can't do anything about the fact that first-years don't have access to self-defense classes, and they're not assigned flight teams. And without those, no flight simulator time."

"I don't need a team," Keith protested. "I could just go with you, like we did before—"

"Not once classes are in session. Both simulators will be booked solid, from dawn to curfew. There are only two, and there are five-hundred-sixty students who need access. In second-year, you'll probably get about a half-hour of team-based flight a week, with about another four hours of observation. Double both, in your third-year."

"I have to watch other people fly?"

At that, Shiro did grin. "Better to learn from someone else's mistakes, rather than make them all yourself. There's one other way you can get flight time, and that's with the fighter jet team. It's all student pilots." He held up a hand, ticking off the list on his fingers. "You must be at least fourteen, a second-year or above, with a flight score above 120, and a GPA of at least three-point-five. I can arrange with—" He needed to get out of the habit of calling Roy by his first name, now that they were peers, as strange as that felt. "—Major Föcker to test you, but from what I've seen, I figure you can top 250 without breaking a sweat."

Keith's reactions were easier to read: satisfaction, worry, confusion, settling into defeat—and then a sudden spike of interest. Even a tiny smile: pleased, flattered, or excited.

"But you've got to get—and keep—that grade point average. One-tenth of a point less and you lose privileges." Shiro opened his hands again. "It's a trade-off. Which do you want more? Less time having to study, or more time flying?"

"I want second-year," Keith said, then faltered. "But the commander…"

"Don't worry about Iverson or LaSalle. You tell them what you want. I've got your back. If you're going to do this, your job will be to study hard and make the marks so you get the privileges. My job will be to help you in whatever way I can." Shiro stuck out his hand. "Agreed?"

Keith regarded the hand, then slowly uncurled and put his hand in Shiro's. His grip was strong, his palm damp from nerves, and calloused across the base of his fingers. Shiro had no time to figure out what that meant, but he gripped firmly, stood, and pulled Keith to his feet.

"No time like the present. Let's find LaSalle and Iverson and break the news to them."

 

 

 

Keith followed Shiro into a large conference room, where Iverson and LaSalle were meeting. They shut down the screen at Shiro's entrance, and stood. Shiro snapped to attention, saluting with a sharp motion. Keith barely had time to register the change—from the usual relaxed set to Shiro's shoulders to a stiffer spine, shoulders back—and no idea how to do the same. He wasn't even sure how to salute, and every instinct told him to hunker down and not move.

"Sir, ma'am," Shiro said, dropping his hand. "Keith has made his decision."

"At ease," LaSalle said, looking past Shiro to Keith. "And your decision is?"

Keith squared his shoulders, keeping his hands open at his sides, oddly comforted by the way Shiro stepped to the side and turned enough to face Keith, as well. Somehow Keith found a good, medium tone, rather than the insolence threatening to come out. "I want to be a second-year."

LaSalle's brows went up, but it was Iverson who reacted first. "No way in hell," he thundered. "Shiro, you've seen the kid's scores—"

And then to Keith's absolute shock, Shiro stepped up, leaning across the table and giving right back to Iverson. He didn't raise his voice, but his tone was harsh enough. He didn't litter every phrase with 'sir', either, and he didn't budge. Keith was torn between running while everyone was distracted, or catching Shiro by the arm and pulling him back. It had been hard enough to believe anyone would have Keith's back. It was baffling to realize Shiro had been deadly serious.

It would've been humiliating to hear Iverson rattling off all of Keith's past failures, if it hadn't also been amazing to hear Shiro retort with his expert assessment of Keith's piloting skills. What skills? Keith had sat in a simulator, doing an illegal road race, and crashed over and over. Where in there was anything so valuable it was worth—Keith's ears caught up to his brain, and his mouth fell open in shock.

"Sir," Shiro snapped, "you want me to find you fifty pilots, then I will. But you'd better give me something in return, and if I say I want this pilot, you give me him, or I _walk_."

LaSalle hadn't said a thing through the entire argument, but at this, she gave Keith a pointed look. He could only stare at her, helplessly. There was no way he'd just heard that. No one would ever threaten to jettison their own career for his sake. He held his breath, struggling to comprehend. He couldn't even fathom it being a usual guidance counselor's trick. That kind of everyday adult-manipulation had been left far behind.

Until they'd entered the room, Keith had figured it would mean nothing to leave, whenever it came time to leave. There'd be nothing to leave behind. Shiro's words had just destroyed that exit, and the ache in Keith's chest was almost like the physical sensation of that exit disintegrating. Yet he wasn't left with a feeling of being trapped. He only knew that no matter what happened, no matter what anyone said, this was a debt he'd always honor.

Even if it took a lifetime to repay.


	3. Chapter 3

Four days until school began in earnest, and Shiro's routine was falling into place. The day before he'd arrived for breakfast, freshly showered from the gym, to find Keith saving him a place in line. Shiro mentioned the gym in passing, as they got food, taking careful note of Keith's reaction.

So far, Shiro's tests were proving his hypothesis true. If Keith had no reaction at all, he wasn't interested. If he frowned or looked worried, he was considering the topic carefully. Shiro would come back around to it once Keith had time to think it over. But if Keith's brows went up, or his eyes widened, it meant he desperately wanted to be included, and just didn't know how to ask.

Easier, then, to simply invite.

"Meet me downstairs at oh-six-hundred," Shiro said. "The gym'll be about as empty as it ever gets." Keith had been assigned gym shoes and clothes, so it was just a matter of getting him there. He had core strength, Shiro was sure of that, but he lacked stamina.

And there he was, waiting as Shiro came around the corner. Keith yawned, half-asleep. All awkward elbows and kneecaps, but enough leg that Shiro suspected Keith would hit a decent height, once he had a few years of regular meals and exercise. Shiro clapped Keith on the shoulder to thump him awake, grinned at the mumbled complaints, and led him to the garrison's gym.

Shiro had his own weights routine to keep up, so he left Keith with one of the gym instructors. He still kept an eye on the boy, pleased when Keith worked his way through each exercise. He'd slowed by the half-hour mark, but he had enough left to do sprints on the track. What the kid lacked in stamina, he made up for with impressive speed.

Running was usually Shiro's final set, but running beside Keith made him feel like the proverbial tortoise. Or more that Keith was simply a hare, with no idea how to pace himself. Then again, sometimes the most exhausting aspect of running was working against one's natural stride.

Hit the showers, dress, get breakfast, and then Keith joined his floor-mates to learn about electives; after that, the entire group headed to the garrison store for supplies. That gave Shiro time to look over the textbooks, revise Singh's teaching plans, and review them with Dr Dunkirk. Lunch together, and in the afternoon while Keith met with his advisor, Shiro had science faculty meetings.

Mid-afternoon, Shiro headed to the cargo flight simulator, where Keith waited, pacing. Early dinner, and a chance question had clued Shiro into the one area Keith's knowledge was abjectly lacking. The boy had no idea how to take notes in class, study, or prepare for tests. With four days to go before classes started, it'd be a crash course, but there was no way around it.

Shiro used his lecture notes for the astrophysics classes as practice. He dropped a number of the more complicated explanations, and skipped much of the jargon, and still had to pause every five minutes to look over Keith's notes. It wasn't the same as the real thing, but it was at least a start, and Keith caught on quickly enough to the basics.

Friday came, and in a rare instance of Keith speaking first, he asked why Shiro wasn't busy with anything else. Shiro just shrugged and tapped on Keith's tablet, reminding him to focus; five-day work-weeks were for civilians.  

On the other hand, Keith had been a civilian until only a few days before. Shiro leaned back in his chair, tablet propped on one knee, and studied Keith's downturned head across the library table. Even Iverson had noticed the difference, pulling Shiro aside to comment that it was like night-and-day.

Keith had thrown himself into absorbing and accepting everything the garrison had, as if his decision for second-year had flipped a switch. Mbabazi had also texted Shiro to say Keith's sullen tension was gone, replaced by a quiet intensity. He had a goal, something to fight for, and he was ready for it.

But it wouldn't hurt to give the kid a day off, and Shiro realized he wouldn't mind one himself. Saturdays were free days; students could leave the garrison for trips to town, go on one-day hikes, or just sleep late and play games. Sundays were quiet zones, intended for studying. On impulse, Shiro leaned forward, tapping on the table to get Keith's attention.

"I promised Major Föcker I'd swing by for lunch tomorrow, and I need to pick up some things he stored for me. Has Mbabazi organized anything for your floor, tomorrow?"

The study lamp cast shadows across Keith's angular features, accentuating each minute reaction flickering across his face. Curiosity, disappointment, confusion, worry. Just barely, Keith shook his head, once, eyes never leaving Shiro's.

"Good, then you can come with me. Föcker is a good one to have on your side, but I'll warn you, if you ever annoy LaSalle, don't think he'll intervene."

Keith's gaze flickered to the tablet, then back to Shiro's face. "Have you ever annoyed Commander LaSalle?"

Shiro grinned, a bit sheepish. "Well, there was one time I—" He caught himself, and shrugged. "Curfew starts in an hour. Finish reading that text, and we'll review before closing up here."

 

 

 

Left in his room by himself, Keith sat on the bed, watching the shadows and trying to figure out the schedule. Shiro had a training meeting, something to do with learning the program used for creating and grading exams. He'd be getting breakfast there, and skipping working out. That meant Keith just had to be ready in the front hall at ten hundred hours.

Keith had snuck out to use the showers, so that was one less thing to take up time in the morning. He mopped absentmindedly at the drips, reviewing what he'd wear. At least he'd cleaned what few personal clothes he had, but the problem was they weren't much. He'd be meeting two people who mattered to Shiro. He _had_ to make a good impression.

His black jeans had no holes, so hopefully they'd do. He could wear his garrison boots, but his long-sleeved shirt were tattered at the cuffs. His one T-shirt was even worse. Roll up the sleeves, then, that should work. He mopped at his hair again, frustrated when it hung in his face. Everyone around him had such neat, clean haircuts, military-short. Except Major Föcker, but he was retired.

It took hours to calm enough to fall asleep.

He staggered from his room, wiping sleep from his eyes, at seven hundred hours. Mbabazi had said there was a place in the basement, and Keith headed there as if on auto-pilot. He soon found himself in the barber's chair, with no idea what the man should do.

"I don't know," he mumbled, acutely aware of how he must look. Unruly hair that did as it pleased, too thick to lay flat, too wavy to stay down. He just wanted to look presentable.

A half-hour later, he was done. The barber had kept it a little on the long side compared to a military cut, but it was shorter than Keith had had in at least a year. He signed for the charge on his student account, unable to stop shivering every time cool air hit the back of the neck. He felt lighter, and suddenly ten times as nervous. Maybe he'd just made a huge mistake. He had no idea.

At a quarter to ten, he stood in the main hall. The pictures drew his attention again, and he wandered down them to the last one in the row. A younger version of Shiro, but this time Keith noted the full name. Takashi. Why would parents name their firstborn Taka, and their second, Takashi? He rubbed the back of his neck again, then finger-combed his hair, wishing for a way to make sure he hadn't just made it all stand on end.

A security guard wandered over with an amiable smile. Keith tensed, nodding in greeting. Did the man remember him from five days before? Keith had permission to wait there. Shiro had said so.

The guard motioned to the picture. "Pretty impressive, innit. 768 points. You know that's only 132 points under a perfect score? No other garrison school's got anyone who came close."

"Oh." Keith deflated. Suddenly it wasn't so impressive to know Shiro thought he could manage 250. If 900 points was perfect, 250 wasn't even a failing grade. It was failing to even fail well.

"See that kid?" The guard pointed at the third one in the row. "My cousin, and she graduated with 650. Only eleven points behind second-place."

And 118 points behind first, but even Keith knew that probably wasn't a good things to say.

"Hey, George." Shiro's voice, from behind them. "Have you seen—" He came around Keith, stopped, then grinned, tousling Keith's hair. "Looks good." He looped an arm around Keith's neck, pulling him close and spinning him with Shiro as he turned to face the guard. "Never mind, looks like I found him. Tell Cathy hey for me."

The guard waved, grinning, as Shiro walked backwards, tugging Keith along with him. Just before the entrance, Shiro let go with a last thump on Keith's back.

"Alright, shuttle's waiting. Let's get into town."

Keith followed, a bit dazed. He'd never seen Shiro wear anything but his uniform, not counting the tank top and bike shorts he wore for working out. They took seats on the shuttle, and Keith kept stealing glances at Shiro. Black biker's jeans, reinforced at the knees and calves. Black boots. A belt slung low around his waist, with mechanics' bags on each hip. Long-sleeved gray shirt with a black vest over it, zipped up. Keith was pretty sure the bars on the collar were for a lieutenant's rank. Subtle, but combined with Shiro's haircut, no one could mistake him for anything but military.

Keith propped one foot on the edge of his seat and hugged his leg, while Shiro looked past him, out the window. The desert rolled past, unending oranges and reds, with a few splotches of neon-green cacti. The morning sun's amber hues shone in Keith's eyes, and he squinted against the glare. The seats were small, and it meant Keith was pressed up against Shiro's hip and leg.

Gradually Keith relaxed—or more like, let his body shift while he held his breath—until he leaned against Shiro. He wasn't sure why he did, and he refused to think too much about it. He moved on instinct. He wanted someone to lean on, and Shiro was there, and hadn't moved away in irritation. Shiro had even pulled his arm up at some point, resting his elbow on the back of the seat.

As Keith leaned in that last bit, Shiro seemed to remember his presence. He tousled Keith's hair again with a quiet laugh, and hooked his arm around Keith's neck, pulling him close. The shuttle rolled to a stop at a line of little houses with small dirt yards.

"Our stop," Shiro said.

A half-block walk and they stood on the front step of a house no different from the rest. Shiro had barely knocked when the door flew open, and Commander LaSalle stood there in bare feet, baggy shorts, and a tank top.

"Shiro, Keith, come on in." She grinned at Shiro. "We're off-duty, so I finally greet you right." She put up her arms, and Shiro bent over to hug her. She didn't offer the same to Keith, to Keith's immense relief. "Roy's in the kitchen, fixing the potato salad." She hustled them in and shut the door. "Shiro, did you want to see to your stuff first and eat after, or—"

Keith's stomach chose that moment to growl. He hadn't meant to skip breakfast, but eating had been out of the question.

"Food, ma'am," Shiro said, laughing. "Check out the haircut."

"I like it." LaSalle ran fingers through her own cropped hair. "Saves on shampoo, too. Right this way."

Keith had no idea how long lunch took. His only task seemed to be to eat whatever was put in front of him. Chicken, potato salad, something with fruit, corn on the cob. Most of the conversation was really between Föcker and Shiro, talking about jets, flight times, upcoming pilots, and new simulations for the older students. LaSalle kept a running commentary, mostly teasing both of them, and a few times she elbowed Keith, as if including him in her jokes. He wasn't sure, but he thought she even winked at him a few times. The only thing he could do was duck his head, partly embarrassed that he had nothing to contribute, and partly astonished he'd been allowed to be there, at all.

At some unspoken signal, Shiro stood, helping Föcker clear the table. Keith stood as well, picking up his plate for lack of any better idea. But LaSalle took the plate and shooed him towards the kitchen door.

"Go on. Shiro, you don't have all day, and Roy's perfectly capable of cleaning up by himself."

"Hey," Föcker said behind her, with a grin.

LaSalle elbowed her husband, pretending to hold him off. "Go on, while the coast is clear."

"Ma'am." Shiro saluted, opened the door, and pulled Keith after him, into the house's garage.

Boxes lined the side walls, along with a rack of clothes encased in plastic. The middle of the garage was taken up with something covered in a massive drop-cloth. It had the shape of a hover, but a little bigger than the one Keith had ridden, and it wasn't long enough to be a racer.

Keith studied the boxes while Shiro dug around on the other side of the covered flyer. Christmas decorations, halloween decorations, university textbooks. Looked like LaSalle and Föcker just used the garage as storage, then. Their house wasn't even decorated, excepting one or two photographs on the walls, and all those were of planes. It felt more like a rental space than someone's house, but maybe that was just how military housing worked.

"I was going to get rid of all this, when I left for college." Shiro had gotten about half the canvas up, enough to check something underneath. "But Commander LaSalle and the major said I could store it here, until I was ready."

The kitchen door opened wide enough for LaSalle to stick her head out. "Don't worry about checking the fluids," she told Shiro. "We've kept it in tune. No riding, though, because Roy is not allowed anymore."

A faint 'hey' floated out and LaSalle shut the door.

Shiro patted the canvas, and looked Keith over. "Come over here." He ducked down behind the flyer, and Keith could hear something like cardboard ripping.

Keith waded between the boxes and plastic containers to find Shiro on his knees, digging through a box.

Shiro sat back on his heels, holding up a jacket. "Try this on. If we're lucky, it should fit you." A rider's jacket. Red, with a yellow stripe across the chest, white cuffs folded back, and a tall collar made for an inflatable helmet.

Amazed, Keith hesitated, but Shiro just raised his brows. Keith pulled the jacket on. It was a loose in the chest, but it came to his waist. The sleeves reached to his knuckles. He held out his hands, uncertain.

"Let me." Shiro adjusted the length, tugging the cuffs up until the sleeves were the length he wanted. He did the other sleeve, then caught the bottoms of the jacket and zipped it up, adjusting the collar. "Well, not perfect. I was a stocky kid, but that just means there's room for you to grow."

"I don't understand," Keith said, fingers curling around the jacket's hem. Shiro had to be just letting him try it on. He started to unzip it, but Shiro stopped him.

"Doesn't do as much good for protection, unzipped. Now, you'll need gloves…" Shiro dug into the box again, handing up a pair of fingerless leather gloves. "Try those. They're adjustable across the back."

Mystified, Keith put on the gloves. A little snug, but he flexed his hand, and the leather had just enough ease. But why? What did Shiro get out of doing this? It wasn't like Keith could wear any of this to class.

"Let's see if our luck holds out. What's your shoe size?" When Keith told him, Shiro hummed, studying the inside of a pair of red-and-white boots similar in style to Shiro's gray-and-black riding boots. "Okay, you'd need two pairs of socks, so we'll consider these as something you can grow into." He set the boots down, then motioned to Keith to back up. "Grab that end of the canvas, let's see how well LaSalle treated my baby."

It took both of them to wrestle the covering off, revealing a red desert flyer. Keith's heart nearly stopped, too awed to even touch it. The machine was long and sleek, its fairing a beautiful red with white racing stripes and a large 01 painted on the sides. Handlebars in the low drag style, tucked beneath a cafe windshield. Everything about it said it was built for speed.

Shiro flipped up the double seat and pulled out a water jug. "Oh, one last thing." He tossed something at Keith—a sturdy leather belt, with two smaller mechanic's packs. "Just in case. Now, let's get this filled and we can be on our way."

Keith didn't even dare to ask where their way might be. He just followed, buckling on the belt to its smallest hole, trying to arrange it on his hips as gracefully as Shiro's. He couldn't quite manage. Shiro busied himself filling the jug in the kitchen sink, while LaSalle piled plastic boxes on the counter.

"Leftovers, should be enough for your dinner," she declared. Before Keith could react, she'd yanked open one of his mechanic's pouches, then the other. "Basic tools, good. Emergency reflective blanket. Remember if you hit trouble and can't get back, that also acts as a good attention-getter." She slipped two packets of something crinkly into his pouches, then snapped them closed with a grin and whispered, "dessert."

"Thanks, Claudia," Shiro said, and to Keith's shock, Claudia merely tilted her head so Shiro could kiss her on the cheek. "I'll wash the boxes before I bring them back."

"Oh, whatever." She piled the boxes into Keith's arms. "On with you. Don't do anything Roy would do."

Roy appeared around the corner to lean a hip against the counter, watching. Keith had to blink again at the man. He practically slouched, compared to the ramrod-straight posture he'd had at the garrison. "Do exactly what I would've done," he told Shiro. "You're young, do it while you still can."

"Not helping," LaSalle said, and shoved Shiro, then Keith, out the door. "Have fun, don't forget to write." She shut the door, cutting off Roy's laughter.

Shiro tucked the jug back into the flyer's underseat storage, arranged it with the boots, and filled it the rest of the way with the food. He latched the seat, hit the button for the garage door, and together he and Keith pushed the flyer out onto the short driveway. Shiro climbed up on the seat and dug black fingerless riding gloves from his pocket. He'd finished adjusting them when he looked around, brows raised. "Get on, Keith, we've only got about six hours of light left." He kicked one foot back, catching the passenger foot-tog with his heel, and flipped it down, then did the same on the other side. "Climb on."

Tentatively, Keith got a foot on the peg, testing it before hoisting himself over. The seat was mostly flat, but enough of a curve that he slid down it, right into Shiro. Keith hooked his heels on the pegs and pushed himself back, worried he'd just annoyed Shiro.

Instead, Shiro snorted in amusement, reached a hand around Keith, and shoved him forward again. "Hands around my waist. Too high—lower—okay, there, that's good. Not too tight. Have you been a passenger before?"

Keith started to shake his head, realized Shiro couldn't see him, and found the voice to say, "no."

"Okay, then. Just think of where my spine is, and make sure your spine stays aligned. When I lean, you lean. Do you trust me?" He glanced over his shoulder, somehow looking both serious and delighted at the same time.

It was hard to answer when he was busy holding his breath, for fear it was all a dream. In the absence of words, Keith impulsively squeezed his arms tighter around Shiro's waist, a strange kind of awkward hug. He relaxed, but didn't let go.   

Shiro's only response was a quiet laugh, then he laid a hand over Keith's, gripping and releasing like an answering hug. He bent forward, then paused, reaching around again to shove Keith closer. "Stay up against me, or the wind shear can get a little crazy." Before Keith could even protest, Shiro started up the engine.

The twin hover-turbines roared into life, twice the volume of the beaten-up hover Keith had flown. And unlike that hover's sluggish rise, Shiro's flyer leapt upwards and forwards. Keith nearly lost his hold on Shiro's waist, but he braced himself on the foot-pegs and pressed himself close. Shiro patted his hand, once, spinning the flyer with his other hand.

With a blast from the turbines, the hover tilted nose-down. Shiro twisted his wrist, giving the engine more power, and they tore down the street. A dirt road lay between two of the houses, and Shiro took it at a fierce angle, leaning sharply into the curve. Keith remembered in time to lean with him. The flyer nearly scraped its casing from cornering so tight. Shiro straightened them onto the desert road, and Keith dared a glance over his shoulder to see dust billowing in their wake.

Shiro's leg tensed as he shifted once, twice, and he bent into the wind, ducking down. Keith bent with him, doing his best to keep from sliding all his weight into Shiro while still staying close. Shiro yelled something, or only laughed, and then the turbines kicked into higher gear. The casing lit up with a green glow, and the flyer tore into the open desert.

Keith had no idea where Shiro planned to take them, and oddly, he didn't care. Trust Shiro? He'd tried to say yes, but honestly, he wasn't sure if it was true. He only knew he _wanted_ it to be true.

 

 

Shiro kept track of Keith's grip, but he wasn't all that surprised when it remained steady. He'd give warning by starting small, and then he'd repeat the move on a larger scale. First, a vertical scald on a rock outcropping, taking them diagonally upwards at about a sixty-degree incline.

Keith's only reaction was to tighten his hold, a fraction—most likely compensating for the flyer's change from its usual nose-down angle, to a strong nose-up angle. Shiro bent over, cranked the throttle, and aiming for the side of a large mesa, a mile or so away. They hadn't quite redlined when they hit it, but damn close. The sheer momentum of the flyer—plus their combined weights—let Shiro scald the mesa far greater than he'd ever managed alone.

That did get a reaction from Keith, a startled shout, carried off by the wind. But Keith didn't let go, nor tighten his grip. Excitement, then. Shiro grinned, torquing the rudders to angle them around. Except instead of the flyer's preferred position of nose-down, Shiro kept the nose up.

They plummeted, belly-first, down the side of the mesa. At that, Keith did scream, but it wasn't high-pitched enough to be terror. It sounded more like sheer joy, and Shiro laughed. At the last second he kicked the engines back up. The turbines' powerful thrust sent the flyer skidding along on a cushion of air.

He figured that counted as warning, and angled them towards a long stretch that gradually rose to the top of the next mesa. Pouring power in the straightaway, Shiro kept the engine at its highest edge. Keith yelled something as Shiro drove them straight over the cliff.

Again, plummeting downwards, nose-up, belly-first. Shiro gritted his teeth, took one breath, and gunned the motor. The flyer pulled out of the drop with barely a few inches to spare. A little closer than Shiro had intended, but it'd been easier to time when he only had to adjust for his own weight.

He straightened out, taking advantage of the level ground to silently thank Roy and Claudia for keeping the flyer in perfect shape. He'd never been one for any sort of homecoming, but if this counted, then a flyer in the open high desert wasn't a bad one, at all. He patted Keith's hand, and reached around behind to push Keith up closer. A warning, too, as he gunned the motors and began running an impromptu obstacle course of desert outcroppings and cacti. Behind him, Keith laughed.

Shiro grinned. Homecoming or not, he'd missed this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering about that time Shiro annoyed Commander LaSalle, that story's told in [**The Agreement**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12018642). <3


	4. Chapter 4

First day of classes, and homework already. Keith remembered Shiro's advice and checked his tablet as the teacher gave out the homework assignments. Some were filed already, some popped onto his calendar as the teacher spoke. Good... but also bad. It was a _lot_ of work, and only the first day.

A cranky white guy named Hedrick taught biochemistry, a class Keith hadn't thought valuable until he'd asked Shiro. What's the biggest scientific question in heliospheric exploration, Shiro had asked him. Keith had been baffled, finally shrugging in defeat.

The origins of life, Shiro had said, and then: so what's the worst danger to that scientific exploration? Again, a long pause, and this time Keith ventured a guess. Finding the wrong kind of life? No, Shiro had said, it's contamination.

Keith wasn't sure whether he was flattered that Shiro thought he could provide an answer, or frustrated with himself for never actually doing so. It felt like he knew nothing at all, and everyone was so far ahead he'd never catch up. He put his tablet away when Hedrick dismissed the class, picked up his bag, and headed to the next class.

Algebra and trigonometry. Shiro had warned him to pay attention, because that class was necessary for understanding his third-year classes in calculus. And that class in turn was crucial for his fourth-year classes in orbital mechanics. There was another in fifth-year but Keith wasn't sure it was worth remembering, if he couldn't even survive one year.

After that, an engineering elective that'd cover propulsion systems, life support, and thermal systems. Keith hadn't seen reason for that, either, but Shiro had simply asked what he'd do if his engineer were injured on a mission? A good pilot should at least know the basics.

None of it seemed very basic to Keith, and all of it seemed like a failure in this year would lead to bigger failures down the road. Every class became the foundation for the next, and it felt like the next four years had suddenly settled down on his shoulders. He couldn't breathe.

A medical class, covering the basics of space medicine, astronautical hygiene, and advanced first aid. Keith didn't mind blood, and he had steady hands and nerves. Cutting into anyone didn't bother him half as much as the thought of talking to the person afterwards.

A self-defense class, which Keith figured would be the one easy thing in his schedule. That impression died once he lined up with the other students, all wearing the provided baggy white pants and oversized white t-shirt. The instructor marched back and forth, outlining what they'd learn: hand-to-hand, and only hand-to-hand. No weapons training until fourth year. There went any chance to use Keith's few skills. The only thing he'd done with his hands was to punch or shove.

He stayed to the back, glum, dutifully following along with the rest of the class. Nothing was turning out like he'd hoped, but then a soft step behind him, and his name, and he almost turned around.

"No, stay facing forward," Shiro said, and knelt down beside him. "Your right foot," he said, as a warning, before taking Keith's foot and moving it back a few inches. Shiro stood, putting his hand at the small of Keith's back. "Straighten up. Relax your shoulders." He pressed down until Keith exhaled, relaxed, and then Shiro stepped back, arms crossed. "Now, punch. Again." Shiro watched a few times, then nodded. "Good. Keep it up."

He moved onto the next student, doing the same, working his way across the back rows as the main instructor covered the front rows. Keith memorized the way his body felt, as best he could, then realized the drawback. If he did it perfectly, there'd be no reason for Shiro to even notice him. But if he did it wrong, Shiro would be disappointed.

He was braced for silence when Shiro came back down the line, but Shiro stopped as he had for every other student. He watched, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, then abruptly smiled.

"Excellent," he said. "You've got a good sense of balance. Keep going."

Keith couldn't hide the pleased smile. Shiro clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, and Keith tried for the next few minutes to regain his usual bored expression. He couldn't seem to manage it.

And last, a cargo ship piloting class. Keith was matched with two other students and given a flight crew number. The engineer was a girl named Janvi, who said she'd won her garrison spot by being in the top three at her country's astrorobotics competition. Comms control was a heavy-set boy with curly brown hair cropped close. He introduced himself with a flourish as Luiz, and said he'd invented a water-carried radio signal, whatever that meant. Janvi seemed to know—her eyes widened and she nearly squeaked, making Luiz promise to show her later. Then both turned to Keith with an expectant look.

What should he say? There was nothing worth telling. If he'd ended up in juvie, maybe those kids would've been impressed that he'd liberated a foster family's hover, led the cops on a chase, and gotten three of those cop cars wrecked in the process. Better to stay silent. He wasn't even sure he could claim the title of pilot. So he said his first name, and nothing else.

His new flight team waited, brows raised while Keith stared at some point just to the side of their faces. They shifted, puzzled, then exchanged disappointed looks.

He desperately wanted to cross his arms, shrug, glare at them. No, that was who he used to be, and if he went back to that, Shiro might realize how wrong he'd been. Keith kept his shoulders level, his tone even. He could do this. He _had_ to do this.     

After another awkward moment Janvi suggested they compare schedules, to see if they could study together. They were in different sections for math and self-defense, but to Keith's relief it was just a different time, not because he was behind. Janvi and Luiz would be together for space medicine, while Janvi was in Keith's engineering class, and Luiz was in Keith's biochemistry class.  

"Then let's meet for dinner instead, and get to know each other," Luiz said. Janvi agreed immediately, and again both turned their attention to Keith.

He should say yes. Their faces said he should, but he'd been having dinner with Shiro. Except now classes were in session, and maybe Shiro would be eating with the other teachers. Was Keith just supposed to know he wasn't welcome? Shiro hadn't said anything, and Keith didn't want to impose. But if Shiro was expecting him—as impossible as that was still, to consider—and Keith had dinner with his flight team, instead, would Shiro get mad?

"Keith?" Janvi asked.

No, no, he needed to think this through. What would normal people do? Shiro had said a flight team had to work together, and if Keith made his own team hate him, Shiro would definitely be disappointed in him. He couldn't move.

"Maybe he skips dinner," Luiz said to Janvi, frowning. "He's awfully skinny."

"Team nine!" Montgomery called from the front of the room, breaking up the flight team discussions. The massive class finished negotiating seats at the three-person tables, rearranging themselves, and settled down. Montgomery—an elderly man with the posture of a lifetime in the military—held up a hand. "Team nine?"

"Oh, that's us," Luiz said, and shot to his feet. Keith and Janvi did the same.

"You're the lucky ones to go first," Montgomery announced. "Everyone, you can leave your stuff behind, we're heading to the cargo simulator. Right this way."  

"Oh, no," Luiz gasped, giving Keith and Janvi a startled look. "You did watch the tutorials last night, right?"

"Yes," Keith said, uneasy. He'd saved it to watch before bed, and it had been boring enough to almost put him to sleep.

"All three," Janvi agreed.

All three? Keith hadn't even thought of that. Was he supposed to? He trudged along behind his team, barely noticing the excited whispers around him. Why were they going first? He had no idea what they were doing. He wished he'd brought his tablet, at least. It had texts Shiro had called syllabi, that were supposed to tell him what to expect. He wanted to fly, but not like this.

Montgomery was droning on about this being a practice run, a quick test for everyone to get a feel for the simulator. Not graded, and Keith felt like the only one who wasn't relieved by the news. He filed in behind his team and took his usual seat at the front. It felt awkward to fly without Shiro leaning over the seat, suggesting, correcting, encouraging. He remembered in time to latch the belts across his chest, and then put his hand on the side-sticks.

The doors shut behind them, leaving the three of them alone. Their progress, conversation, everything would be displayed to the rest of the students outside. Keith could put that much out of his mind. If he failed miserably, at least it wouldn't count against his grades. Or maybe it would, and—

The lights dropped, the screens came up. Montgomery's voice boomed through the 'com, reminding them of their mission: they were a team of three delivering supplies to the international space station. All they had to do was dock. On the screens, the distant station floated in the blackness of space.

As soon as the controls flexed under Keith's hands, he took a breath and focused. If his job was to get them docked, he could do that. He'd watched enough of the video to realize the trick. Pull up alongside the station, and drop into a speed and angle that matched it, and he should be able to slide sideways into the locking mechanisms.

Thinking it was as easy as doing it. He put on a burst of speed, cutting the distant by more than half. Janvi said something about still clearing systems check, but everything seemed fine to Keith. He gave the shuttle another burst of speed, with a slight tilt to bring the nose up. That looked about right. There were controls on the dash blinking at him, but no one was screaming, so it was probably okay.

Luiz was repeating whatever the systems were telling him, something from Control about being ready. His voice kept cracking. Keith ignored that, too.

A final burst of speed, then a reverse booster, tilt the nose up a little more. Keith kept his attention on the nose of the station, and the line of its hull. He just needed a sense of the angle. He could see the docking points out of the corner of his eye.

He gave the shuttle just a single tap, a boost from the outboard side. They edged sideways and came up against the station with a slight jolt. The shuttle jumped slightly with a loud clunk, and the faint vibration in the side-sticks dwindled until Keith couldn't feel it anymore. He shut down the engines.

"Uh… I guess we're locked on?" Luiz asked.

"I think so," Janvi said. "Wasn't it supposed to take—"

A sudden alarm cut off her words, and Janvi squeaked.

"Rear booster is out," she informed them. "But didn't Keith already shut down the engines?"

"But we're docked," Luiz said. "Does it matter, now?" Another alarm sounded and Luiz nearly shrieked. "We just lost all contact with the station!"

"Couldn't they just look out their windows and we can wave at them?" Janvi asked. "I mean, we're right here, aren't we?"

Keith kept his hands on the side-sticks. It was the only way to cover his absolute terror. He'd done everything wrong. The alarms sounded like everything was on the verge of blowing up. It didn't help that both of his teammates were frantically trying to resolve the disaster.

Abruptly the alarms went silent, and the door slid open. Montgomery stood there, with the rest of their class arrayed just off the simulator's bridge. Keith unlatched his belt and followed his classmates out to stand before Montgomery. He tried to mimic Shiro's posture, shoulders back, spine curved a little. He just wanted to curl in on himself.

"Ah, sir," Luiz finally said, "we're not sure what went wrong."

Montgomery grunted. "That's what happens when your pilot docks before the program's ready. Okay, let's have team three do it next. Team three? Come up here. Go on, team nine, dismissed." He coughed. "I mean, rejoin your classmates. Don't just leave."

Keith took his place at the end of the line. Shiro had said it was important to learn from other students' mistakes, but Keith couldn't see the point if he couldn't even learn from his own. Keith took a step back, then another. It'd be easier if he had the wall at his back. He turned, checking, and something on the upper level caught his attention.

Major Föcker stood on the observation deck, arms crossed, watching. Not just watching the class. Watching Keith. Keith waited, holding his breath, until the major looked away, raising a phone to his ear. Keith took the last few steps back to the wall, ducking down a little to make sure he was out of the major's line of sight, and spent the rest of the class trying to figure out how to make up for everything he'd just done wrong.

And he still hadn't figured out what to do about dinner.

 

 

 

When the light flickered over the door, Shiro dismissed the geometry class, gathered up his notes and his tablet, and shoved everything into his bag. He had twenty minutes to get to the simulator for the fourth-year classes. He waded out between the students, answering every question with a reminder to read the syllabus, and checked his watch.

Five voicemails from Montgomery. Three from Iverson. And one missed call from Roy.

That wasn't a hard decision. Shiro dug his phone from his bag and hit the icon for Roy's cell. Roy answered almost immediately.

"Well, you weren't wrong," he said.

"Good?" Shiro tried to remember what he'd been right about. Roy could be cagey with his compliments, if he thought a person was getting too full of themselves.

"Montgomery had that kid's team go first. I'm guessing he's been trying to reach you?"

"Five voicemails—" Shiro looked up to see the elevator ding. "Could you hold that?" He ran the last few steps, sliding in just before the doors closed, and turned his attention back to Roy.  "What happened?"  

"Kid did it in forty-two seconds." Roy chuckled. "Stupid program expects at least two minutes, so it didn't kick in with the failures until they'd already been docked and sitting there."

"Did you just say—" Shiro's best time on that introductory track had been forty-eight seconds, and that was a record. He sure as hell hadn't managed that on his first try. He tried to swallow the laugh, and probably just sounded strangled. "Forty-two. Really?"

"Really. Brace yourself, Montgomery's going to insist you coached the kid."

"I did no such thing." Shiro aimed for indignation, but he couldn't stop laughing. "No chance you got a picture of Montgomery's face?"

"His back was to me, sadly. But I did see the kids' expressions."

Shiro abruptly sobered. "Not good?"

"At all." Roy's disapproval was clear. As the senior staff member overseeing flight testing, he'd be the one having words with Montgomery, not Shiro.

"Got it, and thanks, sir." Shiro added a promise to bring the clean containers by Roy's office the next day, and ended the call. He should probably call Iverson next.

And he would, once he stopped laughing. The hall was momentarily empty except for him, so Shiro had no compunction punching the air happily. Broken one of Shiro's records on the first time out. Take that, Iverson.

"Yes, yes, yes," Shiro chanted. One last punch, then he straightened up, arranged his bag neatly at his side, put on his teacher's face, and stepped onto the simulator observation deck.   

 

 

 

Keith couldn't shake his flight team, and wasn't sure how. Javni seemed to have taken over, and the two boys followed her to the cafeteria. Keith wanted to barrel ahead, get in line, and wait for Shiro to catch up with him. He was stuck hovering outside the door, not explaining, just checking his tablet, and his flight team waited with him.

"Keith!" Shiro called out, across the gathering students as everyone filed in. Keith had just enough time to tuck his tablet away, and Shiro was there, clapping a hand on his shoulder, with a grin as wide as when he'd sailed them both off that cliff. "This is your new team?"

Keith had no idea what to say. Luiz stepped into the breach, putting out his hand and introducing himself. Shiro shook it with a smile, then tilted his head at Janvi.

"Janvi, right? You were in the astrorobotics competition, weren't you?"

"Yes, uh," Janvi stuttered. "Third place."

"Out of over a thousand submissions, I heard. You're eating dinner together, right?"

Keith tensed, and Shiro had to have felt it. He gave Keith's shoulder a quick squeeze before he let go to straighten the bag strap over his shoulder.

"Yes, sir," Luiz said. "Is that—are we allowed to?"

"Allowed? Recommended, cadet. This is your team. You need to be able to count on each other." Shiro bumped Keith, giving him a sideways grin. "And speaking of that, congratulations on your first team flight."

"Congratulations?" Luiz gave Janvi a startled look. "Sir, we, uh, we broke everything."

"Only because the program couldn't keep up with you." Shiro clapped Keith on the shoulder one last time. "I need to run. I'll see you at eighteen hundred hours, don't forget."

"Sir," Keith choked out, as Shiro moved off, waving over his shoulder. Keith lost sight of Shiro as he moved into a crowd of instructors, all their dark-gray uniforms blending together.

"What's at eighteen hundred hours?" Janvi asked, as Luiz got into line, waving them at them to hurry up.

Keith considered and tossed several answers, finally answering with, "studying."

When he said nothing else, Luiz and Janvi both gave each other looks, and started talking about something that had happened in their space medicine class. Keith wasn't sure if they were trying to include him or leave him out, and he wasn't sure which he wanted. He wasn't even sure if he liked them. Luiz was quick-talking, and Janvi was quick-thinking, and Keith couldn't keep up with either.

They hesitated at the entrance to the dining area, until Luiz juggled his tray into one hand and pointed. "There's one! In the back, at the corner."

"That's not an empty table," Janvi said.

"It will be when I'm done with them." Luiz led the way, and soon had the slow-moving first-years hustled off. He sat down with a pleased grin and immediately started eating.

Keith ended up between them, somehow, but at least they'd given up on him talking. Most of their conversation was about robots and radios and something to do with colors, but he couldn't track any of it fast enough to remember so he could ask Shiro later. Maybe it wasn't important. It didn't sound like it had anything to do with piloting, so he didn't bother giving the conversation his entire attention.

Gradually the conversation shifted around to the biochemistry section. Janvi had a different instructor, and she pulled her tablet out in the middle of dinner to compare. They were using the same book, but Janvi's instructor had rearranged the chapter order.

"So much for studying that class together," she sighed.

"Maybe we can switch, so we're all in the same section," Luiz said. "Our instructor seems like a real hard-ass."

In the pause, Keith spoke without thinking. "His fly was down. For the entire class."

But the pause had extended past their table, as a lull in the overall dining room. At Keith's words, it got quieter. Several people at nearby tables turned to look. All Keith could do was shrug as if he didn't care, and ignore them to focus on his soup. A burble of quiet laughter echoed through the large room, and conversation started back up again.  

Somehow he shook off his team at dinner's end, slipping away in the opposite direction. It was five minutes after the hour. Shiro had even reminded him, and he was still late. Keith broke into a run, taking the stairs rather than wait for the elevator. At the library, he slowed when a librarian coughed pointedly at him, but kept his pace quick.

The meeting room's door was open. Keith threw himself into the room without looking, hands wrapped around his bag to keep it from jostling. Shiro sat at the table, facing the door, a tablet, laptop, and a notebook spread out before him.

"I'm late," Keith said. "I'm sorry."

"But you're here." Shiro smiled and pushed out the chair next to him. "Have a seat. Let's get to work."

 


	5. Chapter 5

Shiro tapped on his tablet to wake it, and reread the orders for the fifth time. Nothing had changed, of course. He pushed back from his desk and rested his elbows on his knees.

He'd finally been assigned a mission team at the main airbase. They'd do hops the second and fourth saturday of every month, and the first and third wednesdays. Lucky to get any saturdays at all; he couldn't complain about that. Wednesdays, though… those would be tough.

He dragged his hands down his face, pausing with his fingertips over his eyes. It'd mean twice a month the geometry section would be left to its own devices—hardly an acceptable option. Maybe Trimble would be willing to combine their classes twice a month, at least until Iverson found another math teacher.

It'd also mean sacrificing some of his hours in flight instruction, but Mikhailova could handle the upper classes' flight simulations by herself. After four quarters, he'd have all the hours he needed and then some, so on that count losing two days a month wasn't as much of an issue.

And then there was the question of his study sessions with Keith. He'd be lucky if he got back in time for dinner, let alone inside cadet curfew. Then again, he wasn't sure he could do the astrophysics classes on those days. If he left right on the dot, he'd miss lunch, and arrive without much time for changing into flightgear, or pre-mission meetings. Not exactly the best impression when taking position as pilot-in-command. He had to be there with time to spare.

The problem was Iverson. The man wanted Shiro teaching, and if he decided to intervene, it wasn't out of bounds for the assignment to get pulled. Iverson had seen to it that Shiro's original request was overridden, after all. If Iverson didn't agree, Shiro would have to wait until summer to do those flight hours, and that delayed his plans by at least nine months. Assuming Iverson didn't throw summer classes at him.

Shiro switched off his desk lamp, casting his small quarters in darkness, and tucked his hands under his chin. Outside the window lay starlit desert, dark shapes of the garrison buildings in the foreground. It didn't bring him the usual peace.

Whatever leverage he had with Iverson, he'd probably used up entirely on getting Keith into second-year. Iverson would only give so far, and when he pushed back, he'd do it twice as hard. Shiro had to step carefully.

He exhaled and snapped the desk light back on, blinking at the sudden brightness. Maybe if he rearranged the syllabus, he could set up those two wednesdays as study days. He'd need to designate student proctors; some of the fifth-year pilots had leadership potential.

The question was whether Iverson would be willing to overlook that unconventional solution, or demand a teacher be present at all times. Shiro couldn't think of any prior exceptions, other than one teacher who'd been a nursing mother. He couldn't see arguing that as precedent, not in his case.

And the other question remained: what to do about Keith's study sessions? Maybe it was time to bring the rest of Keith's flight team into the group. Those two kids were pretty sharp, and their knowledge—and their study habits—would be good for Keith. Shiro just needed a way to suggest it that wouldn't be letting Keith down.

 

 

 

Keith waited in the cafeteria line, anxiously checking over his shoulder as the line moved up. Shiro had teacher-work the day before, and couldn't make lunch. Keith had gotten a sandwich and snuck it into the library, and ate it in their usual study room. It wasn't much, but it was one of the few places he felt comfortable.

Just as he was about to give up, someone touched him on the shoulder, and he turned to find Shiro slipping into line behind him. Too relieved for words, Keith let Shiro do the talking as they got lunch and found a table in the corner. He'd barely put his hands on the sandwich when Luiz came hurrying up, Janvi in tow.

"Are these seats taken?" Luiz asked, already pulling one out and sitting before Keith could even react.

Shiro looked up from his salad, startled, but waved the fork at them. Janvi mumbled her thanks and took the last seat. When Keith gave her a look, she just shrugged.

"Alright, so I talked to a friend who has Montgomery in the morning section." Luiz pulled out his tablet. "It looks like we have a _situation_. Montgomery's having everyone redo that exercise we did on Monday."

"So we do it again," Janvi said. "We did fine before."

"Actually, we didn't." Luiz opened up a document and scrolled through. "There's a guy I met, who's a fourth-year in comms. He told me that actually, we failed."

Keith froze, unable to look Shiro's way. He hadn't said anything to Shiro, hoping he'd find a way to fix it before Shiro heard. And now Luiz and his big mouth had just spit it out. Keith carefully put his sandwich down. His throat had closed up, but Javni asked for him.

"Fail? How? We did everything we were supposed to."

"Not exactly. There's an order to it. First the system check is run, then comms checks with Control, and then we can move. We definitely can't move until the system check is done."

"Fine, so we do it in order." Javni picked at her cheese pizza, pulling off a long string, curling it over her fingers, and shoving it in her mouth.

"But you saw what happened with everyone else," Luiz protested. "Even with Keith's speed getting us docked, it'd still come to 117 seconds." He turned the tablet around to display a spreadsheet with his calculations.

Shiro rested his chin on his fist, watching.

"See, the engineering problems happen at 90 seconds, and the comms problems 20 second later. The systems check takes 60 seconds, and the comms check takes 15 seconds. The only way we can be done before that 90-second breakage is if Keith can get us docked in, uh, 15 seconds."

Keith blinked. He probably could do it a little faster, if he tried, but cutting time down by two-thirds seemed like too much. He couldn't look Luiz in the eyes, and he didn't dare look Shiro's way. He stared at his plate as he shook his head, once.

"Maybe…" Janvi opened up her own tablet, scrolling through it. "There's a bit in the textbook about the engineering checks. Wait, I bookmarked it. Okay, so there's ten things I need to do, but five of them aren't systems-crucial."

Keith kept his gaze focused on the plate before him, watching the table in his peripheral vision. Luiz looked hopeful. Janvi tapped a finger on her lower lip, thinking. Shiro barely moved his head, but he was looking back and forth between each of them.

"That would cut out 30 seconds," Janvi said. "That'd give you 45 seconds to dock, so that'd work." When no one said anything, she turned to Shiro directly. "Right?"

Shiro sat up, as if surprised she'd even noticed him. After a pause, he said, "not exactly." Even Keith had to look his way, at that. "Which ones were you thinking?"

Janvi read off the list. Keith had no idea what she'd said.

"The first two are C2-R," Shiro told her. "You can't identify what's redundant until you've done all the other checks and gotten a C1 list. You need to consider those checks as a contiguous process. The last three are sev-one failure modes. You could skip those, but it's risky."

"Would we blow up?" Luiz frowned. "Montgomery would not be happy if we blew up."

Shiro laughed. "You won't blow up, but Keith might be unhappy. Those last checks are for the actuators, which control the thrust vectoring." He held up his hand, tilting it one way, then another, demonstrating the craft's tilt. "That's how you control pitch, yaw, and roll. The simulator systems will detect an incomplete systems check, and are designed to randomly apply a failure of at least one of the skipped systems."

Javni had drawn up the tablet keyboard, and was typing furiously. She paused. "So… we lose pitch, roll, or—what was the other one?"

Shiro spelled out the word. "Technically speaking, you'd be losing at least one actuator. Down to three usually means losing independent exit area control. Those checks are confirming the onboard systems will automatically coordinate the right combination elevator, nozzle angle, and so on."

Keith waited for a translation, but he seemed to be the only one at the table confused. Even Luiz nodded thoughtfully.

"Basically, there's a nozzle around the exhaust, and the systems control that automatically," Shiro explained, to Keith's great relief. "That means as the pilot, you don't have to control it yourself. You can just point the stick where you want to go, and the craft goes."

"Losing that means doing docking manually, then?" Javni frowned. "Can you do that, Keith?"

He tried to give it thought, but with everyone waiting, it didn't seem like he had any other answer. "I guess."

"So we'd have 30 seconds to dock." Luiz gave Keith an eager look. "Could you do it in 30?"

"Maybe?" Keith glanced at Shiro, who simply raised his eyebrows. Not as a dare, and not surprised. More like a quiet question. For some reason it annoyed Keith. "I can do that."

"Excellent. Then we'd be doing everything right—"

"Almost everything," Javni corrected.

"And we'd still beat the 90-second window." Luiz slapped the table, grinning widely. "We've got a plan. Are you done eating yet, Keith? Don't you have algebra-trig next?"

"No, medical."

"Great, my class is down the hall from you. We can walk together."

Keith shoved the last of the sandwich in his mouth, grabbed his bag, and gave Shiro one last look. Shiro's smile seemed oddly satisfied, and that had Keith puzzled through most of his next class.

 

 

 

Shiro had to admit—if only to himself—it was killing him to be talking about theorems when he'd much rather be on the observation deck. Manual docking was hard enough, and doing that on top of cutting the time in half? Any other pilot would probably end up simply ramming the shuttle directly into the station. Shiro figured he could've managed it, but his instinct would be to go slower, not faster. The risk was too high.

Would Keith ever come to that same conclusion? It was obvious Keith wanted to belong, but somehow Shiro needed to get through Keith's head that sometimes it was best to pull back and assess, rather than leap in. Not that he'd really helped that much, if he were honest with himself. He'd probably helped too far in the opposite direction, really. Shiro mentally snapped himself back to attention and finished writing out the proofs on the board.

"Now that we know these two triangles are congruent, the next question is what we—"

Someone rapped on the class door, and Iverson opened the door. "Shiro."

"Sir." Shiro put down the marker. "Everyone, work with your partner to do the next two. I'll be right back. Two of you will be the lucky victims to show your proofs."

He shut the door on their quiet groans, and braced himself. Standing at attention came naturally, especially when Iverson looked mad enough that steam was coming out of his ears.

"What, exactly, are you teaching that kid?" Iverson barked. "Now he's got the other two in cahoots with him!"

"Sir?" Had Keith miscalculated? Montgomery didn't take it any better than Iverson when a pilot got his crew killed, even in a simulation. Iverson possibly took it worse. "Did something happen?"

" _Did_ it? That damn fool kid _happened_ to dock the shuttle _on full manual,_ in forty-nine seconds!"

"Oh." Impressive, but still. He'd been rooting for the team to show up Montgomery a second time. Wait. "Not partial manual, sir?"

"I said full, did I stutter?"

"No, sir."

"The programmed failure took out the stabilizers, but since _someone_ gave their engineer the idea to skip the actuator tests, they lost those, too. All four!"

Shiro kept his back perfectly straight, along with his expression. "That had to be dramatic."

"Dra—" Iverson's eyes looked like they were about to pop out of his skull. "The point of the exercise—and if anyone should know this, it should be _you_ —is to learn the safety procedures and the importance of them. Not flathatting!"

Shiro had nothing to say to that. Iverson was right.

"They pull another stunt like that, and I'll be talking to them, myself. You, however, will be _grounded_." Iverson straightened up, hollering at the top of his lungs. "AM I CLEAR, LIEUTENANT?"

Shiro hadn't thought his posture could snap upright any further, but apparently it could. "Yes, sir."

"Good." Iverson gave him one last glare and stalked off down the hallway.

Shiro watched him go; once Iverson was around the corner, Shiro relaxed with a grin. Yes, Iverson was right about the point of the exercise, at least from Montgomery's perspective. But from Shiro's perspective, there was a completely different lesson in play. Keith might struggle to bond with his flight team, but his flight team was picking up quickly that Keith's skills could give them a great deal more leeway when it came to risky maneuvers. It meant they'd be willing to meet Keith halfway, instead of seeing him as a distant third whose only value was for steering. 

His watch chimed, and Shiro tapped the interface as he pushed open the classroom door. The students went from silent to heads-down and busy, as though they hadn't been utterly stricken at whatever they could hear through the door. One text from Roy. As Shiro watched, two more appeared. Too late Shiro remembered his plans to talk to Iverson about a substitute, twice a month, for the astrophysics classes. Well, that was probably half of what Roy had to say. The other half would probably be as blistering as Iverson. No, worse, because it'd be Roy's disapproval, and that always hurt more.

Shiro sighed, closed the alerts, and picked up the board-marker. "Alright… Amelie, let's have you go first. What did you and your partner decide for the second set of triangles?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't really have much time to research, so the technical information here is quite possibly wildly off. It's a combination of what I could find + engineering knowledge and who knows how the results turned out. If you're USAF and you're banging your head on your keyboard right now at the gibberish, my apologies. <3


	6. Chapter 6

Keith pushed open the door from the stairs and merged in with the crowds of students heading to and from the cafeteria. Shiro had been uncharacteristically quiet the night before, and again this morning, except to say he had something he needed to do, and couldn't join Keith for breakfast. If Shiro wasn't going to offer, Keith had to respect that and not pry, but it was eating a hole through him.

He'd never seen Shiro angry, and he didn't want to, but maybe he was wrong to think Shiro's anger would be the noisy kind. Maybe Shiro was one of those who got really quiet. He hoped not. That kind was far worse, in Keith's experience.

"Keith, found you," Luiz said, catching Keith's elbow. He'd given enough warning that Keith didn't jump like a startled cat, but it was a close thing. Luiz didn't seem to notice. "Janvi is waiting for us. Come on." He half-dragged Keith through the crowd, even shoving, until the two of them joined Janvi in an alcove down the hall from the cafeteria entrance.

"Listen." She beckoned them close, checked around to make sure no one lingered near, and crowded close. "We need to figure out how we're going to fix things."

"What things?" Luiz asked, and Keith gave a slight shrug. He didn't know, either.

"You didn't hear?" Janvi huffed. "Yesterday Iverson grounded Shiro, because of us!"

Luiz' mouth fell open. "Oh, no."     

"Grounded? But he's an adult," Keith said. Only parents did that.

"No flying," Javni said.

Did that mean Shiro couldn't use the simulator anymore? What about the Sunday afternoon flight time he'd promised Keith? If he wasn't there, Keith wasn't sure he wanted to be, either. He looked back and forth between their faces, baffled. Javni looked annoyed. Luiz looked like he was about to burst into tears.

After a moment, Janvi's annoyance shifted to uncertainty. "I thought he was, like, a friend of yours."

How on earth did he answer that? Keith pulled back, uneasy. He wasn't sure he'd claim that title on a good day, and considering Shiro wasn't even talking to him, anymore…

"Keith." Luiz put a hand on Janvi's arm, forestalling her. "Do you know who Shiro _is_?"

That was easy enough. "He teaches astrophysics, and some math class."

Janvi squeaked and covered her mouth. Luiz' mouth fell open again.

"He's _the_  Takashi Shirogane," Luiz said. "Didn't you see his picture in the hall? He broke every record set by Roy Föcker. He graduated from here, four years ago, and no one's even come close to his scores!"

"The Air Force gave him a full ride to study astrophysics, I heard," Janvi added.

"And he's already been to space! Everyone says it's just a matter of time before he goes back again."

That wasn't Shiro's younger brother? Keith felt like the ground had just dropped out from under him. Someone that important, spending all his time with Keith, even taking him out on Shiro's flyer, meeting him for lunch, studying in the evenings. Going up against Iverson on Keith's behalf—hard enough to comprehend that a teacher would do that. But someone of that stature, and Keith hadn't even realized.

"But now he might never go," Luiz added. "Iverson's a commander. I heard he's the whole reason Shiro even came back. If he could keep Shiro from going to space training, who knows what else he could do."

Keith's stomach twisted into knots, and blood pounded in his ears. Between that and the noise of the breakfast crowds, Keith almost missed Janvi's next words.

"It _was_ fun to show up Montgomery," she said. "But we probably shouldn't have. And it's my fault, too, 'cause I'm the one who suggested how we'd do it. But Iverson's blamed Shiro... and besides, maybe you two don't mind, but I'm not looking forward to when everyone figures out it was  _our_ fault. We need to fix this."

Keith couldn't even figure out how to swallow. Fixing anything was probably out of the question. He fought down the panic.

"What do we do?" Luiz was serious, expression sober.

"We need to see Iverson. I checked his schedule. He should be in his office."

Luiz hesitated. "But breakfast—"

"You can skip it this once." Janvi checked the halls. "Come on. Let's get this over with." She picked up her bag and darted into the oncoming streams of people. After a pause, Luiz and Keith followed. They didn't catch up until the hallway traffic thinned out, not far from the administrative wing.

"But what do we say?" Luiz looked panicked. "We can't undo it, and what if Iverson expels us—"

"He won't," Janvi said. "If what we did was that bad, he wouldn't have just grounded Shiro. Which means what we did was only sort of bad, and sort of bad means fixable. Hurry up."

Keith couldn't remember a time that sort of bad had been anything less than disastrous. He wasn't sure he even knew what 'sort of bad' meant. By the time they reached Iverson's door, Keith had been reduced to reminding himself, over and over: Shiro was the only reason Keith even had a flight team. If Janvi was right and Keith could be part of fixing it, he owed that to Shiro. 

Janvi smoothed down her jacket, muttered something about letting her do the talking, and knocked on Iverson's door.

"Enter!"

The door slid open. Keith ended up beside and a little behind Janvi, along with Luiz. They shared a look, and it oddly made Keith feel a fraction better to know Luiz had the same idea: hide behind their engineer.

"Team Nine," Iverson said.

"Sir, we—" Janvi took a deep breath, and Keith realized she was trembling. "We're here to tell you that we realize we shouldn't have skipped the systems checks. They're in place for safety reasons, and we did a—I made the suggestion—and—we shouldn't have skipped them. I mean."

"But we'd all agreed to do it," Luiz said, voice cracking. "It's not just Janvi."

Her shoulders relaxed, minutely, in Keith's peripheral vision. Then a bony elbow got him in the side, and Luiz hissed his name.

Keith still hadn't found his voice. He clutched his bag's strap tighter and nodded, once, twice. He couldn't seem to raise his gaze far enough to look at Iverson.

"So we want to know," Janvi said, and took another deep breath. "We want to know what we need to do, so you won't punish Lieutenant Shiro for our mistakes."

 

 

 

Shiro dismissed his astrophysics class, seeing the last student out and closing the door behind him. In the hall, a clump of students broke apart, watching him with wide eyes; others whispered as he passed. He couldn't decide if he was annoyed or amused. He'd always been on the edges when he was a student himself, but he'd devoured news from the rumor mill like everyone else. It felt odd to be on the other side of that dance.

The students parted like waves separating. Iverson strode down the hall, and Shiro immediately straightened up. Iverson said nothing as he came alongside; he simply jerked his head as direction, and Shiro fell in step beside him.

They walked in silence to the elevators, down two floors, and stepped onto the observation deck. Two more floors below, the morning's cargo flight simulation class gathered up their bags, finally dismissed by Montgomery. Iverson clasped his hands behind his back, and rocked gently on his heels for a moment.

"I need to stop making bets with people," Iverson finally said. "I lose every time."

"Sir?"

"Those kids. Team nine." Iverson stared down at the emptying simulation area. "They came to see me. Wanted to know what they could do to fix things."

Shiro blinked, and let his attention travel to the cargo simulation. Three figures stepped out into the area. Keith, Luiz, and Janvi. Luiz was weighed down with three bags; Janvi carried a bucket filled with bottles, while Keith's arms were full with a large plastic box.

"I gave them a full lecture. All the works."

"The safety lecture, sir?"

"And the one about a pilot-in-command's responsibilities." Iverson gave Shiro a sidelong glance.

Down below, the kids had set their bags to the side, had a short discussion over the cleaning supplies, and disappeared into the simulator.

"Their lunch hours for the next two weeks will be spent cleaning the cargo simulator. I told them I expect to see my reflection in those control panels."

It said something for the kids' backbones, if they were still upright. Iverson's lectures could be harrowing.

"You should have those speeches memorized, Shiro. I expect you to recite them the _instant_ you get any sense those kids might ever pull a stunt like that again."

"Yes, sir."

"Shiro." Iverson turned to look down at Shiro, and his expression was both solemn, and exhausted. "I know it's a tough adjustment for you, but you're not a kid anymore. You're a teacher, now. You need to remember that."

Shiro closed his eyes, subdued. "Yes, sir."

"I know I'm a hardass. I do it on purpose," Iverson said, quietly. "Every single one of these kids—and they're kids, and so are you, if you ask me—you're aiming to go places that you might not come back from. Every graduate I sign off on, I wonder which of them won't come back. Because not all of them do, and— _goddamnit_."     

Shiro waited. There was nothing really he could say.

"The whole point of this program is to prepare students for some damn dangerous jobs. Making sure they observe basic safety is the absolute least preparation. If the price is they hate me, I don't really care, as long as they come home." He was silent, until Shiro raised his face to look Iverson in his one good eye. "You need to remember that, Shiro. Your task is to educate. But more importantly, your task is to make sure these kids know what they need, so they'll always come home."

"I understand, sir."

"Good." Iverson took a step away, then paused. "Command notified me of your assigned hops. I pulled a few strings, and found a geometry teacher to take over your section. On those alternating wednesdays, he'll supervise your astrophysics classes, too."

"Sir?" Shiro couldn't see Iverson's face from the way the man was turned, but Iverson's tone bordered on gentle.

"It's always felt like you never really belonged here, Shiro. We were just borrowing you for a little while." Iverson glanced over his shoulder. "But it's still good to have you back."

Startled, Shiro could only smile. Iverson nodded once and walked off, leaving Shiro alone by the observation window. Down below, Keith hurried from the cargo simulator to fetch a bundle of rags, and ran back in.

Iverson wasn't one for wasting the chance to remind students of what mattered, and care for the equipment mattered just as much. At the same time, Shiro was pretty sure Keith hadn't gone to breakfast, and that would make the second meal he'd skipped. There was no learning on empty stomachs. Shiro shouldered his bag, and hurried down to the cafeteria for four lunches to go. The team wouldn't be done cleaning in time; the least Shiro could do was to bring lunch to them, instead.

 

 

 

Keith finished reading the biochemistry chapter, rubbed his eyes, and waited for Shiro to finish answering the two fourth-year students' questions.

"But baryonic just means protons and neutrons, not things like electrons and neutrinos," the girl said.

"Leptons," Shiro replied. "And you're right, technically speaking. But in astrophysics, baryonic is all normal atomic matter. Don't worry about electrons. They're such a small part, anyway, especially when you're talking about the scale of a galaxy, or greater."

The boy frowned, opening his mouth.

Shiro made a reassuring gesture. "All you need to understand right now is the relationship between the density parameter and crucial density. Leave the finer details until later." Shiro waited until the two fourth-years nodded, bending their heads to their tablets, then he turned to Keith.

Keith handed his tablet over, waiting as Shiro scrolled through the chapter. Keith wasn't sure he was getting the hang of notes, but Shiro hadn't scolded him yet.

"This section…" Shiro scrolled up and back, checking for highlights. He handed the tablet back. "Those two paragraphs. What do you think they're saying?"

"That…" Keith focused on the blurry text. "It's a bunch of stuff about what plants need, compared to animals. And sea animals. But it's just a list. I couldn't tell what the point was."

"You have Hedrick, right?" The girl looked up from her notes, her round face half-hidden behind the low desk lamp. "All you need to do is memorize that. Anywhere you find something that looks like, oh, six elements make up 99 percent of all living cells. Write that down. Make a list from each chapter, memorize, and you're ready for the test."

Shiro raised his eyebrows, but he didn't look annoyed.

The girl shrugged. "Sorry, but I had Hedrick. He doesn't care if you understand, as long as you just recite the facts back at him. He says any scientists we ever work with will explain what they're doing anyway, so all we need to know are what their words mean."

Shiro's brows had come down, but he remained silent. Keith considered the girl's words. He'd never memorized anything, so he wasn't sure it could be all that easier than trying to understand a text that was mostly made of words he'd never seen before. "How do I memorize it?"

"Oh." The girl gave him an odd look. "I usually wrote each fact out, long-hand, twenty times."

The boy made a choking sound. "Too much. I just made flash cards." At Keith's baffled look, he added, "You can get stacks of index cards down at the exchange. Write a question on one side, the answer on the other. Like, what are the six elements that are the basis for life? Or, how much of the human body is carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen, calcium, and phosphorus? I think I still have my cards, if you want them."

"You saved them?" The girl elbowed him. "Burning study notes is the best way to start the summer."

When Keith didn't answer, Shiro said, "If you can't make it tomorrow evening, just bring the cards to class and I'll make sure Keith gets them." He smiled at the boy's nod. "Alright, Keith, then let's leave biochemistry for now, and take a look at your math homework."

The two fourth-years left not long after Keith finished his math homework, and Keith was alone with Shiro for the first time all day. When he'd reread the section on fuselages for the fourth time, he gave up and raised his head.

"Do you have a brother?" he asked Shiro.

Shiro sat with one leg under him, twisted in the chair to lean an elbow on the table, head propped on his fist. He set the tablet down, giving Keith a puzzled look. "Do I what?"

"You don't, do you." Keith's voice dropped as his embarrassment rose. "I thought you had a brother."

Shiro looked confused.

"I thought the picture in the hall…" Keith couldn't keep eye contact any longer. He fingered the edge of his tablet. "I thought that was your younger brother."

"Really?" Shiro suddenly grinned. "Are you saying I don't look like that?"

"Well, the person in the picture…" Keith struggled to pinpoint the difference, other than the obvious part about the picture being of someone younger. "Seemed short. Shorter."

Shiro laughed and sat back, throwing an arm over the back of his chair. "No, that was me. I _was_ shorter. I saved up my last growth spurt for when I turned 19."

"Janvi and Luiz told me you've been to space."

"I have."

Keith dropped his head, words failing him again. The corner of his tablet was going to wear down to nothing, but he kept digging at it with his thumbnail.

"Keith." Shiro's voice was gentle. "What's bothering you?"

What could he say? Keith shook his head, unable to come up with an excuse. It wasn't exactly a topic that would normally come up, and he couldn't see a way to pretend. He should've found a better way to lead in, so he'd have a way to back up. He'd never been any good at thinking about exits ahead of time.

"Keith?"

The words burst out of Keith, but at least his voice stayed low. "Why'd you come back? I thought the point was space training—" He broke off, mortified. He hadn't meant to sound like he was accusing Shiro.

"Lots of reasons." Shiro's hand landed on Keith's shoulder, a gentle touch. "First, I'm not a civilian. You were listening during Montgomery's orientation speeches, weren't you?"

Keith sighed. "I was trying?"

"I should've known." Shiro squeezed Keith's shoulder, reassuring, and let go, twisting in his seat to face Keith more directly. "There are two tracks. One is the civilian track. For that, you graduate from Garrison and go to work for Space Agency. Depending on various factors, you'll have another year, or two, in space training. Then you'll have two years on the bench, waiting for an assignment. If you get one, your two years start over. If you go two years without an assignment, you're retired from active space flight."

"What happens then?" Keith regretted the question instantly. Had Shiro been retired already? One flight, and that was it?

"I'm not sure. I didn't take the civilian track." The lamp's light cast shadows across Shiro's face, but the amusement was clear in his voice. "See, every space flight must have one person in command, and that command position must be military. Command means being an officer, and being an officer requires a college degree."

Keith digested the information. A bubble formed in his chest, a strange sense of pride. Of course Shiro wouldn't settle for being anything less.

"Unfortunately, it also means I have to fulfill military requirements." Shiro's smile was wry. "A thousand hours of pilot-in-command missions, and a thousand hours as a flight instructor. The second, I can do here, working with students in the flight simulator. But the other, I have to do at the local airbase."

"Two thousand hours," Keith whispered, awed.

"Four hours, five days a week, as a flight instructor, means I'll finish in about a year, give or take. But getting time for hops—flights—is harder, since my current assignment is as a teacher." Shiro stretched and picked up his tablet. "Are you done reading that section?"

Keith wanted to say yes, but he hadn't really read it, so much as stare blankly at the screen. Besides, a bigger question was forcing its way to his mouth. He had to know. "How long will it take—to do the flights part?"

Shiro was quiet for a bit, head tilted, brows curled, his gaze almost too intent for Keith to bear. Then Shiro straightened up, breaking the moment. "I've been assigned a team, and we'll do hops four times a month. Unless something changes, it'll probably take two years." He smiled. "Which works out, since my current assignment is for two years."

Two years. And then Shiro would be gone, and Keith would be left on his own. He had no idea if he should take a military track. He didn't particularly want to be in command of anything, but… "Do civilian and military fly together?"

"In space flight, yes."

Keith nodded, the first glimmerings of a future taking a vague shape in his mind. He didn't have any interest in the military. A week of school was enough to be certain he'd never willingly sign up for four more years on top of what he already faced. But if he could get to space training, then he'd rejoin Shiro. Did space flights have co-pilots? It felt incredibly arrogant to even think such a thing, but for a moment, he did. Two years wouldn't be enough to repay the debt, and if Shiro hadn't tired of him by then… that's what Keith would do.

"Keith? What's on your mind?"

Keith shook his head. "Nothing important." He tapped his tablet screen to wake it up. "I didn't mean to keep you from your work."

"It can wait, if it needs to." Shiro yawned, and picked up his own tablet. "Besides, it's boring as hell."

Keith couldn't help the quiet laugh.


	7. Chapter 7

Keith woke before his alarm, but didn't get up. He sat in bed, letting his mind wander. Shiro had warned Keith that he slept in on Sundays, but Keith wasn't sure if that was because the gym was closed on that day, or Shiro chose not go. Besides, waking at 0700 instead of 0600 didn't seem like much of a late morning, in Keith's opinion.

At 0700 hours, Keith dressed to fly. He left the flight suit mostly unzipped, revealing his light t-shirt underneath. He didn't like how tight the suit was around the throat. He had no idea why Shiro told him to head to the cafeteria first, but he found two second-years waiting for him. Boy and girl. The boy was a little taller than Keith, with choppy brown hair that stuck out in all directions.

"Jae-Hee," the boy said, and jerked his head at the girl. "Ana. Keith, right?"

Keith nodded.

"We have to pick up breakfast for everyone," Jae-Hee said. "Second-year duties. Come on, the cafeteria should have it ready."

Keith followed, watching the two move with such assurance. Keith had hoped other second-years meant he wouldn't be the only one who had no idea of what might lie ahead. Maybe it was time to accept he'd always be running to catch up.

The cafeteria worker had two crates ready with boxed breakfasts, and third that held drinks. Keith stole looks at the other two as they each took a box. Jae-Hee looked like Shiro in the face, except Jae-Hee's face was longer and narrower than Shiro's. He wasn't as tall as Shiro, either. The girl, though, was the palest person Keith had ever seen. Even her eyes seemed washed out, or maybe it was the contrast between her paper-white skin and her brilliant deep blue hair. She wore it in a messy bun at the base of her neck, and Keith was soon fascinated by the way some strands seemed deeper or lighter.

A dozen students waited at the simulator room. It held six pods, rather than one big three-person pod, and instead of a peripheral deck with an observation deck above, the six pods were in sets of two with a walkway between. The three walkways met in the middle of the room, where the instructor or command crew would monitor progress. Some of the students were in groups of twos and threes, talking quietly. Shiro stood with his arms crossed, listening as two girl pilots discussed something that required a lot of hand motions. Shiro's flight suit looked the same as the students, though his had patches on the sleeves and the chest.

Everyone straightened up at Shiro's call to grab breakfast and head into the briefing room. Keith picked up a breakfast box, not sure what it even was.

A fourth-year boy tilted his head at the box, then gave Keith a grin. "Are you vegetarian, too?"

"Am I what?"

"That green mark on the corner means the meal's vegetarian." The boy took the box from Keith, holding it up. "Who's the veg? Sarah, is this yours?"

"I got mine," a girl called, from the group around Jae-Hee's crate.

"Boxer, over here," a boy said, holding out his hand.

Freed of the vegetarian meal, Boxer picked up two boxes. Broad and a half-head taller than Keith, his hair was shaved close to his scalp. His dark skin was a dull bronze under the room's artificial lights.

"Second-year, right?" Boxer asked. "What's your name?"

"Keith." He reached into the crate for his own breakfast, but the crate was empty. Boxer had taken the last two.

"I'm fourth-year, so I might be your RIO today," Boxer said. "I'll get us seats at the briefing table. Grab me a lemon soda, would you?"

Dumbfounded, Keith pawed through Ana's crate, locating a lemon soda, and a water for himself. In the briefing room, Shiro stood before a wall-sized touch-screen at the front of the room, a breakfast burrito in one hand. With little flicks of his fingers, he opened a series of windows, reviewed the information, then closed it up before Keith could see any details.

"Keith, here," Boxer called, motioning to the empty seat beside him. He'd chosen seats only a few down from the head of the table.

Keith opened the packed breakfast, surprised at how little was in there. Normally he'd eat two breakfast burritos, maybe three. He looked around, trying to see what everyone else had.

"Just one," Boxer said, elbowing him. "Don't want you getting sick in the simulator."

Keith doubted he would. Pass out from hunger, maybe. He uncapped the water and drank half in one swallow.

"Alright, let's get started," Shiro said. "I'm Shiro, for those of you who haven't met me. I'm taking over for Montgomery—"

There was a smattering of soft applause from under the table, like a few people quietly slapping their knees in appreciation. Shiro's grin was wry.

"Okay, cadets, I hear you. Now, we've got three second-years joining us." Shiro pointed out each.

Keith wasn't sure how to react when his own name was greeted with several waves, a few hellos, and some smiles. The best he could do was nod without quite looking at any one person. Ana stared at her own plate during her introduction, while Jae-Hee bore his with the ease of someone who had to have gone through it all before. Keith envied the boy's cool.

"First item." Shiro finished off his breakfast, balled up the tinfoil, and tossed it into the recycling receptacle. "Keep this in mind. It's going to be tempting to get in the simulators and compete. Don't. You are not each others' enemies, and if you forget that, _everyone_ fails. This is your squadron. If I find out anyone is acting like their scores give them rank, you'll be dealing with me. If your scores are better than someone else's, the _only_ thing you should be doing is figuring out how to help that person come up to your level. Are we clear?"

The room was silent. Was this a speech everyone else was hearing for the first time, too? Shiro rested his knuckles on the table, leaning forward, and looked up and down the room.

"Oh!" Boxer sat upright. "Clear, sir."

"Yes, sir," another student echoed.

Keith let his own agreement get lost in the sudden murmur, but the reaction seemed to satisfy Shiro.

"Here's the roster," Shiro said, opening up a list of names and pictures on the large screen. "We've got an odd number for now, and an uneven number across the classes. That means we'll be running today's session with a flight commander, and two ground control."

He caught the edges of three student images, and flicked them over to the side. One person groaned, softly. Shiro glanced over his shoulder, and the groan ended in a stifled cough.

"Everyone has something to do. Now for partnering—" Shiro caught at the three fourth-year students' images, lining them up on the left-hand side, listing off each name. "You'll be RIO for the second-years…" Shiro grabbed three more images, sliding them across to lock next to their partner.

Keith leaned over to Boxer, whispering, "rio?"

"Radar intercept," Boxer whispered. "Bombardier, navigator, radar guy, second pair of eyes."

As Boxer had predicted, he ended up being paired with Keith. Flight command was two fourth-years and a third-year. They moved to the front of the room, waiting as Shiro ran through a brief review of the weather conditions in the day's simulations. Crosswinds, low cloud cover, some chance of rain. Hilly, arid terrain, possible flash flooding below. Keith had no idea why the terrain mattered at all. They'd be in the air.

"We'll be doing aileron rolls, barrel rolls, and rudder rolls." Shiro glanced at the three doing ground crew. "Jackson? You have the floor."

"Sir." The girl stepped forward, and Shiro backed up to lean against the wall, watching. It took a bit for the girl to find the files in the system, but she pulled up a series of videos, pausing to point out the differences in the types of rolls. With all the technology, Keith was a little surprised when Jackson reached under the table and brought out a small replica of a jet fighter, on a stick, and repeated each maneuver with it.

"You might have trouble telling a slow roll and an aileron roll apart," Jackson told the group. "Just remember you do an aileron roll at max roll rate, and the pitch axis is uncontrolled."    

Keith had no idea what any of that meant. He'd had an hour of Shiro walking him through all the controls, screens, and take-off and landing procedures, followed by an hour of playing navigator while Shiro flew. His dreams had playing back that hour, ever since.

Climbs, turns, rolls, mixed up with Shiro's addition of other fighters in the simulation so Shiro could demonstrate maneuvers like displacement rolls. The names hadn't been half as important as the way each felt. The one where he stayed in a central place and turned felt nothing like the one where the jet rose, turned as it fell, and then rose again.

Boxer nudged him as Jackson finished, and Shiro tapped something on the screen, clearing it. Half the students rearranged then, resettling themselves as pilot and RIO, side-by-side. Tablet-sized screens lifted up from the table, angling for one or two people to watch, and Boxer pulled Keith close.

"Alright, so we're going to be fourth of six, which is good." Boxer scrolled through a window with summary notes. Some of it looked familiar, and Keith wondered if that was what Shiro had been working on during their friday study session. "That'll give you a chance to see other jets take off, but I'll walk you through it, too."

What surprised Keith was how the flight was mapped out, down to every detail. Boxer only read the flight plan perhaps twice, and seemed to have it memorized already. Then it was just going over the terrain, noting visual landmarks that would act as markers for the next series of maneuvers.

"Just try not to wait until you see the jet ahead going into a move." Boxer pushed the map-view around with two fingers, checking the satellite view. "At the speeds we'll be going, you'll be past the point before you've even twitched the stick. We'll do the first hop at half-speed so you can get a feel, and the second pass we'll go full speed." He frowned. "At least, that's what Montgomery always had us do. I guess Shiro'll do the same."

Keith hoped not. He wasn't too inclined to go slow, not if that meant taking time away from going fast.

Boxer must've seen that in Keith's face, because he grinned. "Well, I found it useful when learning. Oh, and don't forget, if you crash in the simulation, your time ends. No save points."

"Oh." Keith wasn't sure of that term, either. It didn't sound like something he needed to remember, so he dismissed it.

At the front of the room, Shiro finished reviewing with the command group. The three stepped back as Shiro motioned for the room's attention.

"Alright, in order, Talon One, Talon Two…" He listed each assigned call sign, and Keith stood with Boxer when Shiro called out Talon Four. They filed out after the rest, out into the main simulation chamber where the six simulators waited.

Keith found Talon Four and was about to climb in, when Shiro caught him by the shoulder, turned him around, and zipped Keith's flight suit up in a quick motion. Keith made a face and tugged at the collar. Shiro didn't quite roll his eyes, but he did spin Keith back around, and adjust something at the neck of the flight suit.

"Aright, you're ready." Shiro clapped Keith on the back, almost sending him head-first into the cockpit. "Boxer?"

"All good, sir," Boxer said, and climbed in behind Keith.

 

 

 

Shiro stood behind the flight command trio, arms crossed as he studied the screens. Jackson had the knack for command; her voice remained calm and unruffled even when the simulation system applied chance and threw in a thunder-shower. The two students flanking her had chosen to divide up monitoring the second-year flights with Jackson. Each was quiet, speaking up only when the RIO failed to mention something. All three wore their headsets with one ear-cup half off, attuned to Shiro's commentary.

"Talon Three, put your elevators in a neutral position," Hernandez said. "Come up a bit, your nose is too low."  

Talon Four kept attracting Shiro's attention. Keith had struggled with the first hop, either too impatient to go fast, or instinctively aware that some of the maneuvers required supersonic speeds. He was still moving too soon, most of his moves nearly in perfect sync with Talon Three, despite the distance between them.

The six simulators—large shoeboxes, basically—pivoted and spun on their gyroscopes as each pilot enacted another maneuver. In a well-trained team, the simulators could shift with incredible precision, like a long row of dancers rising and falling, rapid-fire, timed perfectly.

This group wasn't there yet. Shiro didn't need to look over Jackson's shoulder to see the six heads-up displays from the simulators. Just watching Talon Five's simulator pitch and roll, a half-beat off, and he knew Five was using Four as signal for the next maneuver. It actually didn't help that Keith was too fast; it just made it more obvious that neither were in sync.

"Jackson," Shiro said, "we have the time, so let's have them do another touch-and-go, and repeat the course. When you do, move Talon Five up to the front of the line. Let's get her some clear air space, see if that helps. And put Four at the back."

"Sir." Jackson hit the button for open comm. "RTB, and we'll begin a third pass. Normal landing with full flaps, touch-and-go. Talon Five will move to lead position, Talon Four to rear position, in three, two, one. Talon Five, your screens should show lead." She put a hand to the headset, listening. "Talon Five, you need to confirm—" She sighed heavily. "Just say roger that, okay? Okay, then. Good. Talon Four, confirm your screens—yeah, okay, but next time wait for me to finish. Talon One, confirm you have Talon Five in your sights—okay. Talon Six—don't just say yes, make sure you're confirming what I'm asking. Is Talon Three in front of you? Okay, good. Remember, full flaps, touch and go."

The simulators tilted down, leveled out, and tipped up in turn. Land on the back wheels, nose up, and then fire up the jets. Shiro loved that sensation, and while simulators could damn near mimic everything—including the slightest vibration of the engine in the sticks and a fair amount of the g-forces—there was a certain smell, a heaviness, as the jet came down and promptly took off again.

That, and no one programming a simulator had thought to add the ground crew watching from off the runway. There was a certain joy in keeping the jet low—barely twenty feet off the ground—and tearing down the runway to angle over for a low pass directly over the ground crew's heads. Lower, the better. Until a simulator could capture that much, it would never quite be the same as the real thing.

The simulators were no longer in order; Shiro had to track their movements against the count on Jackson's main screen. Five, one, two, three, six, four, each on the beat. Getting out in front had fixed Talon Five's delay. Talon Five's pilot was a third-year, making a rookie mistake, one now apparently fixed. It could be the pilot's quirk, but it felt a little too convenient. Shiro made a note to keep an eye on that pilot.

Meanwhile, Keith—Talon Four—was no longer stomping. Had he gotten it, too, that fast? Shiro pulled up his tablet and tapped for Talon Four's comms. Shiro covered his free ear to listen better to his earpiece; yes, that was Keith, counting under his breath. Shiro sighed and shut down the link. The point was to use landmarks as the maneuver point, not simply to fly in sync, especially when there was a chance the lead plane might not be as perfectly timed it as appeared.     

The doors opened at the far end of the simulation room, and Shiro half-turned to see. Roy strolled towards him, in uniform, hair slightly messier than usual. Shiro backed away from the central command point so their conversation wouldn't disturb Jackson and her crew.

"How's he doing?" Roy asked.

Shiro filled him in, but left off his analysis, curious as to Roy's reactions. Roy held out a hand, taking the tablet, and selected the screens for Talon Four's stats. He watched for a few minutes, expression neutral. Thinking. Eventually Roy nodded, handing the tablet back.    

"Finish up with them, but keep your kid around." Roy glanced sideways at Shiro. "I'll use him as the chase pilot for your flight."

"Sir?" Thankfully Shiro had a good hold on the tablet, or he would've dropped it. Keith certainly wasn't ready to pilot on his own; he'd require an instructor. Roy offering to instruct Keith directly, though—that was a surprise.  

"You've reviewed the flight plans," Roy said, and it wasn't a question. Shiro nodded. Roy clapped him on the shoulder, turning away. "I need coffee. I'll see you when the group's done."

"Sir." Shiro watched him go; for such a tall man, Roy had a remarkably casual stride, a lanky kind of ease. Roy must have a theory about Keith's skills, something he wanted to test. Shiro had a suspicion of what it might be, but he set it aside.

He returned to the command juncture of the three walkways in time to catch the last maneuvers. Jackson called them all back to base, and one by one, each touched down, the simulators stilled, and the hatches opened.

"Alright, shake it off," Shiro told the kids. "Everyone into the meeting room for debriefing."

 

 

 

Keith stood with everyone else, but held back when Shiro motioned for him to stay. Maybe they'd do lunch together. That single egg-burrito hadn't been enough. Shiro finished shutting down the screens. The table's mini-screens clicked, whirred, and slid back into the table's surface.

"Okay, let's go," Shiro said.

Keith stepped out of the room, pivoting on his heel to ask Shiro about lunch. A quick movement flickered at the edges of his vision. Keith instinctively dodged. Something round and hard hit the wall beside him, and bounced back. Keith spun towards the movement right as the ball hurtled back towards him. He ducked.

A soft slap behind him. Keith came upright to find Shiro holding the ball. "Sir." Shiro tossed it back, and Major Föcker plucked it out of the air without looking. He was watching Keith, instead.

Keith tried not to fidget. The major's gaze was too direct. This wasn't the man who'd chatted so easily with Shiro over lunch, and joked with his wife. Keith had the sense he'd done something wrong. Worse, he was probably even more in the wrong for not realizing it immediately. How was he supposed to know, if no one said anything? Irritated by the unfairness, Keith lowered his brows and refused to look away.

"Let's review the flight plan." Föcker motioned Keith and Shiro joined him at the main console. He pulled up the map, zooming in on a hilly satellite view, sparsely treed. "Visibility, 10 miles. Cloud cover, 8500 feet. Winds from the south-south-west, 5 miles per hour at ground level. TOT is thirty minutes. App is set for three bandits." He checked his watch. "Iverson will be ground command. He should be here shortly."

Keith nearly jumped out of his skin when Föcker caught him by the shoulder, pulling him around to the console.

"I need more coffee for this, Taka," Föcker said. "I'll review with fireball here."

"Sir." Shiro snapped a quick salute, grinned at Keith, and headed out of the room.

"Alright, you see this map?" Föcker pinched the map until the entire area was shown. "Now, Shiro's going to be coming in from here, and the bandits will come from here. He'll evade until they attack, and then he'll defend. Notice this terrain?"

Puzzled, Keith nodded.

"Now you can forget about it." Föcker swiped across the screen, and the landscape flattened. "For your version of the simulation, we'll leave the land so you have the horizon, but you don't need to worry about landmarks. Your task is to shadow Shiro."

Keith took a breath and steeled himself. "So I just follow him?" Like the flight he'd just done, he guessed.

"Yes and no." Föcker tapped on the screen, and a silhouette of a jet fighter appeared on the screen, black against the dull tan background. "If Shiro is here, then you…" Föcker tapped again, and a second silhouette appeared, in red. "Are here." He moved the second shape to just behind Shiro, and a little to the side. "I've bypassed the simulation's constraints, so don't worry about fuel or flying into anything, but if you run out—or run into anything—I will count it against you. Try to avoid it."

It felt like hearing words from another room. They all sounded like something he should understand, but the meaning just wasn't coming through. When Föcker stared at him, Keith gave up and nodded.

"Questions?"

"What happens if I get in Shiro's way?" Keith wished he'd paid more attention, before.

"You won't. You're literally a shadow, insubstantial on his radar. He and the bandits will be real enough to you, but not the reverse." Föcker looked up as Iverson and Shiro entered together. "Alright, let's go." He swiped the screen clear, clapped a hand on Keith's shoulder, and steered him towards the simulator pod for Talon Two. Keith climbed in, and Föcker helped him strap in.

The hatch closed. There was a moment of darkness, then the screens and console came to life. Keith flexed his hands, settled them on the side-sticks, and waited for the plane ahead of him—Shiro's jet—to begin its taxi down the runway.

A minute or two of waiting, and the exhausts on Shiro's jet flared into life. There was no hesitation, not like following the other students. Shiro was in the air almost immediately, flying low over the dull flat ground. Keith almost wished the terrain had remained, and on impulse, he spoke up.

"Can I have the ground, back? The terrain?"

"Hmm?" Föcker's voice sounded through the headset, then the ground flickered into shapes.

Shiro was still flying low, and suddenly there were buildings, a road, low hills. Every now and then, a scrubby looking tree, and all of it flew past so fast Keith thought he was going to be sick. He forced his attention away from the ground and onto Shiro, pushing the jet to catch up.

Two bandits came tearing in from Keith's right, and a heartbeat later, one descended from the clouds above. Keith wasn't even sure if he ran into any, or through any. He was too focused on keeping up. The next twenty minutes were a blur, broken only by Föcker naming each maneuver, soft enough that the words barely filtered into Keith's awareness: lag roll, rolling scissors, yo-yo defense.

Keith overshot twice, as Shiro banked, rolled, went vertical and came down and around. Anything he did, Keith was a half-second behind. Their distance widened, then narrowed, and then Shiro was off again.  Gradually Keith started to associate Föcker's quiet narration with Shiro's actions, but he was only barely keeping up.

It was like trying to nail down the world's worst roller coaster. Shiro was too slippery. Keith banked hard to avoid one of the bandits, and a moment later it was a ball of flame, falling out of the sky. Shiro was nowhere to be seen. Keith pulled into a vertical climb, turning as he went, trying to find Shiro.

"On your three," Föcker said, softly.

There he was, doing another one of those rolling scissors moves with one of the bandits, while the other climbed vertically. Keith angled his jet into a steep drop, gaining speed, as Shiro broke to the right in a broad sweep. The second bandit missed Keith by barely more than a wing's distance.  Keith banked into the steep turn, catching up to Shiro, who abruptly twisted around and steeply upwards.

"Yo-yo," Keith said, before Föcker could.

Shiro flew upwards and around, angling down. Keith fell into line just as the second bandit burst into flames from Shiro's strafing. The last bandit came up from behind. Shiro's angle tipped out, then in, and Keith knew immediately which of Shiro's defensive maneuvers was coming. He couldn't stop the grin. He eased off the stick, coming around behind Shiro. The final bandit overshot. Shiro fell in behind, with Keith just below and to the side. The next instant, the final bandit was hurtling towards the ground.

Shiro leveled out. Keith wondered how Shiro was doing, because Keith felt like he'd run ten miles. His flight suit was soaked with sweat, and the headset felt damp against his ears.

"You've passed bingo," Föcker said.

Keith kept his attention on Shiro, but his mouth moved automatically. "Is that bad?"

"It means you wouldn't have enough fuel to get home. I've overridden it, for now."

"Oh. Thanks?"

Föcker's only answer was a soft chuckle.

Shiro landed, and Föcker walked Keith through the touch-down, just as Boxer had done. The jet bounced a few times on the runway before the front wheel settled down. Keith lowered the flaps back to neutral as the jet came to a stop. The screens went dark, a single interior light came on, and the hatch unlatched.

Keith struggled with his harness, getting one undone just as Föcker appeared. Föcker assisted with the second, but put a hand to Keith's chest, pushing him back.

"Headset, fireball," Föcker told him.

Abashed, Keith rook off the headset and hung it over its hook, then accepted Föcker's hand up and out of the simulator. Shiro was already out, talking to Iverson about something on the console. He looked up with a grin.

"Still alive?" Shiro asked.

"I think so," Keith said.

"Barely." Föcker clapped Keith on the shoulder, and Keith's legs almost buckled from the impact. "A few close calls."

"What's the verdict, then?" Shiro wore a peculiar smile, as if enjoying a joke only he knew.

"I'd need to review, but I'd say 300. Not counting the written test." Föcker tapped on the console. "Iverson, that can wait. Let the kid get some food. Debrief at fifteen hundred."

Keith blinked. What time was it? His brain whirled, trying to figure out where over six hours had gone. He was about to protest it couldn't have been that long, when Shiro slung an arm around Keith's neck, tugging him backwards, towards the exit.

"Major, Commander, want us to grab you anything?" Shiro asked.

"Coffee," Iverson said.

"Alcohol," Föcker said. Iverson grunted, and Föcker waved a hand. "Fine, coffee for me, too."

The elevator doors slid shut, and Keith contemplated sagging against the wall. Shiro hadn't removed his arm, so Keith leaned on him, instead. Shiro just laughed.

"That was amazing," Keith finally said, as the doors opened and let them out into the main floor.

" _You_ were amazing," Shiro replied. "You kept up pretty well."

"Wait—" Keith tried to remember what Föcker had said. "I thought I was just a shadow, that I wouldn't show up on your radar." Had he gotten in Shiro's way at any point? Distracted him? He hoped not.

"Of course you showed up. We were running the same simulation." Shiro gave Keith a puzzled look, then broke into a grin.

"But the major said—"

"Don't worry about it," Shiro told him. "I could see, and you did great. Come on, the cafeteria closes in fifteen, and I'm starving."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: these scenes have only the barest relation to reality. While the maneuvers are ones (as I understand) would be among the first taught, and a pre-briefing and post-briefing is standard, a lot of this is me filling in the gaps. I researched what I could, but most of the info I could find on simulation programs are for commercial pilots, who obviously have a very different set of priorities. Also, in the real world, even these simulations normally wouldn't be for beginner pilots. Most fighter pilots have a bachelor's degree, and probably at least two years of some simpler level of flying. They just don't put kids in multi-million-dollar supersonic aircraft, if you were wondering.


	8. Chapter 8

Shiro walked Roy across the central courtyard to where the shuttle would arrive. "Thanks for coming in on a Sunday," he said.

"No big deal." Roy shrugged. "Claudia's got her weekly poker game with the girls, anyway. You coming by on Saturday?"

"Can't. I've got a dawn hop at the base."

"Ah."

Shiro adjusted his pace to match Roy's easy stroll. The sun would be down soon, and the desert was losing its heat. His flight suit cut the wind, but he could feel the chill against the back of his neck.

"Kid's got potential," Roy said. "If we had a way to accurately measure peripheral vision and spatial ability, I think he'd be off the charts."

Shiro smiled. "You say that about all the fourteen-year-olds you teach?"

"Didn't say I was teaching him. That's your job. And what I said about you is that you're the top of the chart. He's not even on it."

Shiro's grin grew wider. He'd been almost certain, but it was good to hear it confirmed.

"Even you smashed a bandit on your first time out," Roy continued. "He dodged all of them. From behind, above, below. And he only lost sight of you once."

Shiro nodded. Roy was working his way up to saying what he'd left out of the briefing.

"What worries me is that losing sight of you was the only time he came close to panic."

"I saw the readouts." Shiro halted, turning to face Roy. "His heart rate was fast, but steady, he didn't say—"

"I know panic when I see it," Roy said. "And that's why… I'm not sure this is the right place for him."

"Not the— " Shiro straightened his spine. "With his skills? Who else would give—"

Roy stopped Shiro with a hand to his shoulder. "Remind me again how many generations your family has been military?"

The childhood stories popped into Shiro's head. Nine generations in the modern military. Before that, eighteen generations sworn to protect the local lord. He frowned, not sure why Roy would bring that up.

"Right," Roy said, although Shiro hadn't said anything. "And that kid's family? What do you know of that?"

"What family," Shiro admitted. "Orphaned at age seven. Or abandoned. The paperwork isn't clear. Bounced between foster homes and state care. Repeat runaway. Some shoplifting, allegedly stole from a foster family."

"Hmm." Roy ran a hand through his hair. "Taka, I want you to listen closely. I can see why you're probably thinking you and that fireball have a lot in common. You're both fighters against some pretty incredible odds. But you need to think about how your reasons differ."

Shiro had never given much thought to it. And besides, he hadn't been in a fight for at least two years. He'd backslid at university when he'd been under the worst stress, but it'd never amounted to more than a barroom brawl. No real harm, never much foul.

"You're a solo fighter," Roy said, stabbing a finger at Shiro's chest. "Even when you thought the whole world was against you, or even just disinterested, you'd keep fighting."

When Roy put it like that, Shiro wasn't sure it was such a good thing.

"I know for certain that whomever will someday take you down, Taka, they'll have to be suicidal, because you'll take them with you. But not that kid. That's not how he fights, or why."

Shiro waited, uncertain.

"I expect he'd fight if cornered, but only as long as it takes to make an opening. Then he'll flee." He stared across the courtyard at the main gate. "But—" He shook his head. "Taka, there's a difference between a kid growing up thinking he's something _wrong_ , and a kid raised being told he's _nothing_."

Shiro braced himself against the echoes, however faint they'd grown over the years of refusing to listen. His father's angry shouts. Stand up straight, take your lumps like a man. Keep that up, you'll never be a man. There was only one way to be a man in the Shirogane household, and Shiro could never measure up. Too bookish, too short, too soft, too weak.  

Roy started walking again. "Whether the kid goes the military route or space route, he's going to decide for himself, each time, whether someone's worth following. You may've hated growing up military, but it did teach you that there's an order to things."

An order that Shiro was privately certain Roy loathed, and tolerated only for Claudia's sake.

"You know the difference between a good commander, and a good command, and I've seen you follow orders even when you thought the commander was a sack of shit. You understand there's a bigger picture."

So that was Roy's point. "I know Keith's got some growing up to do," Shiro said, "but once—"

"No, Taka." Roy's voice was kind, but adamant. "With more maturity, he may accept that bigger picture, but I'll eat my guitar if he ever makes it his true priority. That kid's going to flame out the instant he's forced to deal with someone he doesn't respect, doesn't—" Roy cut off with a shrug. "He's got phenomenal potential. No one can deny that. All I'm saying is, it's open to debate whether this is the best place for him to master it."

"Sir." Shiro took a deep breath against the quiet ache in his chest. "I hear what you're saying, but I don't agree."

"If you did, you wouldn't be you." Roy halted at the shuttle stop. The light on the sign cast shadows across his face and turned his hair to blazing gold. He thumped Shiro on the shoulder, then embraced him in a rare—but warm and comforting—hug. "Maybe Claudia and I will visit the airbase for one of your hops. Can't miss seeing you scare the dickens out of the ground crew." He released Shiro, but kept hold of his shoulders. "You're taking on a huge responsibility, but if anyone's got what it takes to make it work, you do."

 

 

 

Keith had never been one to daydream in class. He'd always been too busy trying to drill his hatred into the teacher's brain. Or watching for a distraction so he could bolt. After the previous day's simulation exercises, he couldn't even spare the usual energy for hatred. The most he could manage was a lukewarm dislike.

Hedrick droned on at the front of the room, something about cells, or chemicals, or something. Keith would type in half a phrase, curl his hand, and suddenly remember the feel of the stick against his palm, the sight of Shiro's afterburners turning red as plumes of smoke trailed from Shiro's wings.

Luiz elbowed him for what was probably the fifth time. Keith couldn't remember what he'd been typing, and wasn't even sure what Hedrick was talking about, anymore. When the light blinked over the door, signalling class end, Keith sighed and closed up the desk screens.

"Did you do the paperwork?" Luiz pulled out his tablet. "I sent you the form. Janvi found two people who want to switch to be with their flight teams, and Professor Cohen said it's okay with her."

They had to get Hedrick to agree. Keith didn't trust the likelihood. At least he'd filled out the request when he'd gotten the email, just before he'd fallen into bed, still dressed. He pulled it up on his tablet and followed Luiz up to the front, where Hedrick was gathering up his notes.

"Sir," Luiz said, "the engineer on our flight team is in Cohen's class, and we'd like to switch with, uh, Harry Yang and Jenny Garcia." He held out his tablet for Hedrick to review. "That way they can be with their flight teams, too."

"And you cleared this with Cohen?" Hedrick scrolled through the request, and pressed his thumbprint to the box for the professor's approval. "Alright, you're done. Ah, Jones. What do you want?"

"The same." Keith forced down his annoyance and held out his tablet.

"No." Hedrick stood. "Dealing with you myself is bad enough. I'm not going to foist you off on Cohen without warning."

"Sir?" Luiz's brown eyes were wide. "But we're on the same flight team—"

"A mistake I'm sure will be cleared up once Jones here reverts to form." Hedrick picked up his bag, and turned to Keith, Luiz dismissed. "You've been behaving, I'll give you that. But don't think I'm not watching. And you'd better believe I'll be telling Cohen everything you haven't, because if she knew, she wouldn't want you within a hundred feet of her classes. Speaking of which, Luiz, you should get to your next one."

"Yes, sir," Luiz said, and caught Keith by the elbow. "Come on."

Keith wanted to jerk his arm away, but he wasn't sure Hedrick would let him go, if Luiz weren't insisting.

In the hallway, Luiz lost his confused look, expression settling into angry lines. "I hate teachers like that. The kind that decide they don't like you, and if there's any chance of making you miserable, they take it. Asshole."

Keith almost laughed, turning it into a snort. "You, cussing?"

"I do, sometimes!" Luiz pulled out his tablet. "I'm going to cancel my request."

It was Keith's turn to catch Luiz by the arm. "What? Why?"     

"It's not fair to transfer if you can't. Maybe we can get Janvi to transfer into our class. Then it's just one person, so it should be easy."

"Stop." Keith yanked Luiz' tablet from his hands. "Why should you two put up with that jackass, if you don't have to? You got permission. You should take it."

"And leave you alone in there? After what he said?" Luiz grabbed the tablet, but Keith didn't let go. "Give it back!"

"No!" Keith braced himself, tightening his grip. "You've gotten permission, you should—"

"Cadets." Shiro's voice, from behind them. Keith abruptly let go of the tablet, and Luiz did the same. Shiro's reaction was almost too fast to see, catching the tablet before it hit the ground. He hefted it, looking back and forth between them, then held out the tablet to Luiz. "This is yours?"

"Yes, sir," Luiz said.

"Good. You're free to continue this elsewhere, but you're blocking the door to my classroom. I do need to get by." Shiro seemed amused, a smile curling his lips. When he glanced at Keith, his brows came down.

Keith looked away, embarrassed. He'd gotten a shoebox-worth of flashcards from that fourth-year engineer. He'd study them, and that would do. Hedrick was just like every teacher, friendly and helpful until someone whispered in their ear. After that, nothing Keith did would ever be right, if they ever even acknowledged his presence again. It wasn't anything he hadn't handled, before.

Besides, he couldn't just run to Shiro for help with everything, as much as he desperately wanted to. He'd sat in the debriefing with Iverson and Föcker reviewing Shiro's flight, as if he—no, not _belonged_ , that would never be the right word. But he'd been _allowed._ He didn't want to risk that, to give Shiro any reason to decide Keith couldn't handle a teacher acting how teachers always acted, anyway.

"Keith." Shiro's look felt almost as searching as Föcker's had been, in that briefing room.  "You only have two minutes to get to your next class. You may need to run."

"Oh." Keith shook himself. "Yes, sir," he said, and took off down the hall.  

He couldn't shake off his thoughts, though. In the debriefing, Föcker had given Keith a similar intent look, when listing Shiro's errors. Keith had counted to twenty to keep from launching himself across the table in fury. At least Iverson pointed out what Shiro had done right, and by simple tally, Shiro's mistakes were minimal.

There'd been no discussion about his own performance, as Shiro's shadow, except a single question from Föcker. He'd asked what gave Keith the idea that Shiro was going to do a lag roll. He'd replayed that section of the flight.

"He tipped towards me," Keith said. "Whenever he tipped away, he did a—the yo-yo kind. When he tipped towards me, it was the lag kind."

"Lag displacement roll," Föcker said.

Iverson frowned and replayed that section. "Looks like you almost did do the other," he said to Shiro.

"I was about to, but decided against it. My previous attempt hadn't made the bandit overshoot."

Keith had no idea why Iverson and Föcker seemed to radiate disapproval. Shiro had known he was there, and despite the radio silence between them, he'd been signaling to Keith. He wouldn't have done that if he hadn't thought Keith wouldn't understand, or couldn't keep up. And Keith had. Just barely, but he'd managed to follow that one with more accuracy than any of Shiro's other moves.

So what if Iverson and Föcker were confused or annoyed. Keith was absolutely certain no other pilot could've made the maneuver so gracefully that even a complete novice like Keith could keep up. And no other pilot would've even tried, not for Keith.

He skidded into the engineering class with only seconds to spare, and fell into his seat beside Janvi as Professor Ryu stood to take roll. Janvi gave Keith a curious look. Still bubbling with that peculiar, vicarious pride, Keith smiled at her. Janvi blinked, then smiled back, and ducked her head to her desk-screen.

Keith opened up his own desk-screen, and settled his fingers on the keyboard. This was one of the classes Shiro had said was crucial, like the algebra classes. Keith just had to study hard, like Shiro had showed him. He might not ace it, but failing was out of the question.

Hedrick—or any other teacher—could be as much of a jackass as they wanted. Keith would handle it. He owed Shiro nothing less.

 

 

 

Second night of the second week. Shiro was not surprised to see Hernandez and Griffith waiting in the library study room, and made a note to definitely put Hernandez in the pilot's seat for the next group flight. She had a sharp, meticulous mind, and he was curious to see her piloting style. He'd need look through the simulation runs, too, and find someone in comms who could update a few. He'd inherited Montgomery's flight plans, and it was probably time for some change-ups.

Two more of Shiro's physics students had joined, and at the end of the table, Keith huddled with Janvi and Luiz. Their heads were down over Keith's tablet, their whispers intent. None of them looked up as Shiro entered, too focused on whatever they were plotting.

There was one open seat at the near end, but that meant Keith was at the far end from him—and everyone was elbow-to-elbow. Not that he cared much for sitting with his back to the door, either.

"I think I need to talk to the librarians about getting a bigger room," he said. "Hernandez, Griffith, if you could scoot down? I'd rather not have to shout when someone has a question."

Keith looked up, surprised, then smiled and dropped his head.

With some rearrangement, Shiro ended up in his usual seat, between the second-years and the upperclass students. Keith's flight group broke up their discussion and buckled down to homework, all three looking satisfied. Shiro decided against asking what they had in store for poor Montgomery next.

On thursday, he threw a particularly difficult concept at his physics students, and was glad for the new, larger room, when six more students showed up. The first ten minutes of the session ended up in administrative duties, figuring out who'd had classes that Keith's flight group were taking. With a better sense of who'd be attending regularly, and when, Shiro paired the students up as needed, got consensus on the plan, and put them to work.

He made the rounds to each pair or trio, discussing their questions softly, and moving to the next. It was an hour before he could sit down to review his lecture notes for the next day's classes, and he suspected that soon he'd need to find another time to do that, if the group grew any more.

At least Janvi had taken over helping Keith with their shared engineering class, although Shiro noted that now Janvi and Luiz studied biochemistry together. Once Keith realized Hernandez was one of the pilots in the sunday group, he'd somehow worked up the nerve to ask her help with his biochemistry homework. Griffith pitched in with comments, at times.

Friday afternoon, Shiro arranged to have Hernandez run the group, picked up dinner to go, texted a note to Keith, and headed to his quarters. He was asleep by 1800, and awake at 0200, blearily slapping the alarm clock, and out the door in five minutes. The halls were eerily silent, the garages empty. It felt almost rude to crank up the flyer with the entire garrison dark; he kept the engine running as low as he could without scraping the flyer's belly on the ground. Out the gate, and he was off to the airbase.

Nothing could top take-off at dawn, though. The runway ran north-east, and the sunrise hung over his right shoulder, orange to purple. He saluted the crew chief, confirmed his stats with command, and pushed the jet forward. The engines roared and he was airborne, staying low—not much higher than Roy's head, if the man had been able to make it—and after a few miles, he went into a vertical climb as the rest of his squadron joined him.

Between planning, pre-briefing, the step, and post-briefing, it took six hours for only an hour in the air. By the time he returned to the garrison, he was both exhausted and energized. He dropped his bag off in his quarters and went looking for food, still a bit abashed that as the newest lieutenant on his own squadron, he should've brought snacks. After the loud and length complaints from his squadron, he wouldn't forget again.

His uniform was due for cleaning, and Shiro dressed in his casuals, gathered up his laundry, and headed down to the exchange. He didn't expect to find Keith sitting on one of the sofas in the central area, flashcards stacked before him. Keith didn't look up, so Shiro dropped off his laundry before interrupting the kid's studying.

"Keith," Shiro said, bending over the back of the sofa. "More biochemistry?"

"Medical." Keith recited something under his breath, flipped over the card, and set it on one of the two piles. About equally split, from what Shiro could see. "Boxer helped me write the questions. He had Palmer, too."

Shiro shifted to rest one hip on the sofa. "So why are you studying down here? It's a bit noisy." The various shops of the exchange—cleaners, uniform shop, school supplies, convenience store, even an eye doctor—ringed around a central area. It was like a miniature shopping mall, like any base exchange. Just much smaller, but with better couches. On a late Saturday afternoon, it was as busy as it ever got.

"Boxer helped on the condition that I take his uniforms down for cleaning and brought them back." Keith shrugged and flipped over another card. "I figured I could study while I was here, anyway."

Good to see the usual traditions were continuing into the next generation. Shiro clapped Keith on the shoulder. "Don't use up all your brain cells in one place."

Keith gave him a crooked smile, with the tiniest hint of an eyeroll.

"I'm going to catch up on my sleep. We're still up for dinner?" Shiro squeezed Keith's shoulder when Keith's smile widened, and headed back to his quarters for an overdue nap.

Sunday's fighter group went well. Talon Five definitely was already developing a fighter pilot's ego, though. If she wasn't out front, she wasn't happy. The problem was her habit of tiny sabotages until she got her way. Shiro made a note to ask Iverson for suggestions on what to do. He wouldn't tolerate it in his own squadron, but he wasn't sure the best way to handle it, either. Keith did well enough in his turn as Boxer's navigator, although Boxer admitted in the debriefing that half the time he'd thought Keith just had incredible luck for guessing who was where, in the shifting formation.

Sunday night, Keith's flight team joined Keith and Shiro for dinner. Shiro was finally worn down enough that he doubted he'd be up any later than the students' lights out. He left the conversation to Janvi and Luiz, content to just watch the three interact. Until Luiz mentioned studying for an exam, but Shiro couldn't recall Keith mentioning one.

"You have an exam, already?" Shiro asked. Hernandez had mentioned Hedrick only gave three exams each quarter. It put a lot of weight, grade-wise, on those three tests, which Shiro didn't like. But even so, it was too soon; from his recollection of Keith's syllabus, the first test wouldn't be for another two weeks.

"Oh, yeah." Luiz made a face. "I'm in Cohen's class, now." Janvi nodded, while Keith suddenly became too interested in his mashed potatoes.

Shiro tucked that thought away, but he didn't forget it. After dinner, he gave pretense to go in Luiz' direction towards the student dormitories, catching up with the boy in the hallway.

"You switched to Cohen," Shiro said.

"Yes, sir."

"But Keith didn't," Shiro prompted.

"Uh… I guess. I mean, yes, sir. Cohen said she'd allow it, and Janvi found people who wanted to switch, but Hedrick refused. Now there's a guy in Cohen's class who's mad at us 'cause we said we'd switch and didn't. Sir."

"Did Hedrick give a reason for refusing?"

Luiz jammed his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders.

"You're a flight team. Whenever possible, you should be in the same classes. If a teacher won't let that happen, that's—" Shiro caught himself. His jaw felt tight, a sure sign of rising temper. Hedrick was an arrogant asshole, and whatever he'd said was enough to make Luiz clam up. Shiro took a breath and tried again. "It's not alright. I need to know more, so I can get it straightened out."

"Uh, well, he... said some stuff about keeping an eye on Keith, that he knows Keith's up to no good. And that he'd talk to Cohen and once she knew, she'd refuse Keith's transfer. Basically."

"I see." Shiro hadn't seen red in years, yet now it hazed the outer edges of his vision. He kept the smile on his face for Luiz' benefit. "Thanks for telling me. I'll do my best to get the three of you in the same class."

Luiz grinned, and even managed a somewhat-decent salute.

Shiro waited until he was back in his own quarters to call Iverson. The man answered on the second ring.

"What do you want, Shiro? I'm eating dinner," Iverson growled.

"I wouldn't call if it wasn't important, sir."

"You never call." Silverware clattered in the background. "That's why I answered, 'cause I figured it must be important. What did that kid do, now?"

"Nothing, sir." Shiro explained the basic outlines.

"I see." Iverson sighed. "You aren't outside Hedrick's door, by any chance? I've written you up enough already for one lifetime."

"I'm not outside his door, but if you don't fix things, I will be." Shiro pulled back with an effort. "Sir."

"Watch your tone, lieutenant. I know you're pissed, and I don't blame you. But that kid's not the only one with a track record, you know. Don't be going back to yours."

"No, sir."

"Good. Alright, I'll have Emily put the paperwork through in the morning, and speak to Cohen. You can tell Keith to just go ahead to Cohen's class." Iverson snorted. "Hopefully Hedrick hasn't really had that conversation with Cohen."

Shiro couldn't resist the tease, now that he knew Iverson would handle it. "If Hedrick has, permission to have a conversation with him, myself?"

"With what's left of him, more like. Cohen'll chew him up and spit him out for spreading rumors about students. I know you didn't get along with her, but she's been teaching for fifty years. She's nobody's fool."

Shiro hoped so. He hung up and collapsed back on his bed, lying sideways with his legs hanging off. Two years of this schedule might do him in, but if he could at least get Keith settled and steady, he'd have fulfilled half his promise to Iverson.

That reminded him: he still had to identify forty-nine other pilots.

Shiro groaned, grabbed the pillow, and rolled over with it around his head. He'd deal with it in the morning.


	9. Chapter 9

Keith bent his head to his desk-screen when Dr Palmer announced the quiz results had been sent. 72 out of 100. He kept his expression flat, disinterested, and closed the notification. He'd needed to score 85, at least. He'd add it to his private spreadsheet later, where he kept track of every point. Somehow, across all six classes, he had to hit 85 percent. In the fourth week and facing a barrage of mid-quarter tests, he was starting to lose hope.

Cohen was a fair teacher, and as long as he memorized every point she raised in her pre-exam reviews, he'd kept every test score above 90, and one time, a 96. But the last test before mid-terms, he'd only gotten a 83. He needed to keep at least two classes above 90, to make up for his mid-70 averages in math and medical.

Janvi had suggested extra credit, but Mr. Lee had laughed and told Keith there was no point. Either Keith got math, or he didn't. Shiro had asked what was wrong, at lunch that day, and Keith had mumbled some excuse.

He _had_ shown Shiro that one good grade in biochemistry, and been awarded with another day-trip into the desert on Shiro's flyer. They'd eaten lunch on the rocks, enjoying the whistling wind through the rocks, then returned at sundown, slightly sunburnt, exhausted, and covered with road dust.

Recalling that one day adventure warmed Keith, until the next quiz score from Palmer. Keith thought of Shiro's delighted one-armed hug, and didn't want to think of what the opposite reaction would be. He said nothing about the score. He stopped going to bed at light's out. The dormitory alarm clock was cheap, but turned on high, the glow was bright enough to study by.

In engineering, Janvi was the only reason Keith wasn't utterly lost. He memorized her notes, but Professor Ryu didn't just want recitation. He wanted a reason why, and no matter how many times Janvi explained, it just didn't make any sense.  

Basic piloting—Montgomery's class—he was doing alright. Montgomery tested the flight groups together, and their grade was shared. All Keith had to do was make sure he didn't hold Luiz and Janvi down too much. So far, they had just shy of an A. It should've been a reason to celebrate, except for the sinking knowledge that without him, Luiz and Janvi would've managed that A with room to spare.

He had an hour with Shiro in the gym each morning—though really, it was only the last fifteen to do several loops around the track alongside Shiro. Shiro's work was ramping up, and he'd started taking his lunch in the instructor's mess so he could write his tests, grade papers, whatever teachers did.

Self-defense was the one blank spot in Keith's tallies. He'd already tested into the next level, halfway through the quarter, but he had no idea how that translated into a grade. Instructor Chan wouldn't tell him, either. Then again, self-defense was the one bright spot, too.

After the first few weeks of basic moves, they'd been divided into groups. Not by gender or age like Keith expected, but by build and weight. At barely five-three—and only recently weighing in at one-thirty after a month of working out—Keith still got put in the small class. Most of his group-mates were girls, with a handful of boys. Keith had been ready to be as annoyed as the rest of the boys, until Shiro joined them.

"This first year, you'll be learning pure self-defense." Shiro towered over all of them. "Since you're either shorter or lighter than your average opponents, you're going to need to learn a few different moves that will help you offset the difference." One of the girls raised a hand, and Shiro paused. "Yes?"

"You're huge. Shouldn't Instructor Chan be teaching us?" The girl pointed at the main instructor—who still topped Keith by a head—at the other end of the practice hall. She was demonstrating moves to the biggest boys.

"Two reasons. One, when we get to throws, you can practice them on me. Two, I wasn't always this tall. When I started self-defense, I was about…" He pointed at a girl barely shorter than Keith. "Your height. So I learned to fight in a style that's meant for someone smaller and lighter."

"Why not switch, once you got taller?"

Shiro grinned. "I prefer to let someone else expend the energy, and use that against them. Alright, line up."

Evenings meant four hours of study, and by the third week, Keith picked up dinner to go and ate it in the large conference room while he studied. That gave him an extra hour of study before curfew, another hour after, then he'd collapse into bed, dream of the desert, wake, and do it again.

The fifth Sunday of the fighter jet group, he met Jae-Hee and Ana at the cafeteria, and carried the crates of snacks and drinks down to find everyone already in the briefing room. Shiro wasn't alone, either. Iverson, Föcker, Montgomery, and two other instructors stood at the front. The student pilots would be flying solo flights, of fifteen minutes each.

Keith listened closely to the flight plan. It'd be the same for each of them, in separate simulations. He kept his arms crossed, expression impassive, the fear of being called out as a novice enough to bury his excitement. Pitchback, wingover, low yo-yo, rudder roll, and end with a split-S. Each maneuver had a maximum time and minimum elevation. When Iverson finished explaining the flight plan, Shiro added some additional warnings and tips.

"Remember," Shiro concluded, "everything is a trade-off between airspeed and altitude. Keep the energy high, or you won't be able to maneuver efficiently. Questions? Alright, then, you'll go in groups of six. Everyone else will wait here." He called out the first set.  

The six pilots filed out with all the instructors, except one who remained as supervisor. Keith accepted his breakfast and a water from Boxer, but had no appetite. Keith's name was called in the second group. To Keith's surprise, Iverson helped him buckle into the simulator pod and get his headset in place. Without a word, Iverson shut the hatch. Keith was left with a runway on the screens, cloudless blue skies, and a countdown timer. The only other screen readout was the altitude, speed, and total time.

When the timer hit triple zeros, Keith didn't hesitate. Into the air, flying low like he'd seen Shiro do, but he didn't stay there. He broke for the sky, gaining elevation rapidly. After the pitchback and wingover would come the low yo-yo, and he need to have enough height to keep from dipping below the base elevation.

A flat computer voice reminded him of the first maneuver, but it hadn't even finished the words and Keith was already halfway through. When he'd come around to point back at to the runway, he shot straight upwards, coming around and down at twice the speed. He didn't bother leveling out, letting the energy propel him into the low yo-yo. Shiro's voice echoed in his head: trade altitude for airspeed. Keith grinned and pushed the throttle forward.  

Some objective part of his brain knew the sensation of being pressed into the seat was due to the gyroscopes surrounding the pod. It didn't matter. It felt real enough, and by the time he hit the rudder roll, he didn't care, anyway. He slammed his left stick forward and yanked his right all the way back. The jet vibrated, Keith eased a fraction, and the jet fell into a sideslip. Keith followed it, the horizon spun onscreen, leveled out—and he was through.  

The simulation simply ended, screens going dark except for the total time. The single overhead light came on. The hatch didn't pop open. Confused, Keith yanked on the handle, but the door stayed closed.

Iverson's voice came over the 'comm. "Sit tight, pilot, the hatch will unlock when the full time is up."

"Oh." Keith stared at the time. Just over six minutes. "Can I go again?"

"Do what? That's a negative, cadet. Just sit there and don't cause any trouble."

Keith tried moving the sticks, but the simulator didn't respond. He settled back in the seat, unable to stop grinning. Maybe they'd do a second round. He wanted to see if he could beat that time. He was sure he could. He wondered if Shiro had done a similar flight, and what score he'd gotten. How much faster did Keith need to be, before he could even dream of flying alongside Shiro?

When the hatch finally popped open, Keith hung up his headset and climbed out. Jae-Hee, Boxer, and Ana had been in his group. All three were sweat-soaked and grinning as much as Keith was, and for the first time, Keith felt like he might—maybe—belong.

He had enough appetite suddenly to eat three of the meals, but he had to settle for wolfing down one, and draining the water bottle in a single long swallow. Another fifteen minutes, and the last set of pilots returned, with the same excitement mixed with exhaustion. Once everyone was settled in, Iverson raised the in-table screens and counted off the pairs along the table. Keith ended up paired with Ana.

Each set of students would review and assess three flights. No names, no identifying features, only a visual summary of the jet's movements, and a log, broken into sections for each maneuver. Altitude, speed, duration. Three graphs showing speed, altitude, angle of attack. Five points baseline for each move, subtract or add a max of five for success or failure. Five minutes each flight, go.

"Minus three," Ana whispered. "It was going so slow in the wingover, it almost stalled out."  

"But it descended strong," Keith said. "Minus one?"

Ana gave it some thought. "Minus two?"

They worked their way through the first flight, and were into the second when Boxer leaned over, nudging Keith.

"Do you know if Shiro ran the simulation, too?" Boxer asked.

Keith gave him a baffled shrug.

Hernandez tapped Boxer on the shoulder. "Stop pestering the second-year, it's got to be Shiro. We grade him like anyone else."

Boxer sighed, and Keith turned his attention back to the second flight.

When Iverson called time, everyone submitted their assessments. The table-screens lowered and the main screen at front light up. The third-, fourth-, and fifth-years all straightened up, several leaning forward anxiously. Keith sank down in his seat, arms crossed, nervous.

"The tallies are student assessments times one, plus instructor assessments times two," Shiro explained. "Yes, they're weighted in our favor." He tapped the screen, and three columns appeared, listing each student and final score, in order.

Keith's name was at the top left, with a score of 431.

Maria Hernandez was second, with 357. Jae-Hee was third, with 322. Then two fifth-years, with 299 and 287. Boxer led the remainder with 267. The rest of the scores clustered closely, with a few ties, the lowest at 235.

All the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room. Keith felt pinned to his chair by g-forces far greater than any simulation could manage. Sound battered against his ears, slowly resolving into something that made sense.

"Who's Keith?" One of the fifth-years asked.

Ana pointed at Keith, who couldn't seem to look away from the scoreboard. What had Shiro gotten? Was he anywhere close? Or was he still so far behind? Abruptly he recalled the pictures in the main hallway. Shiro had graduated with a score in the mid-700s, and the closest anyone had gotten to that was a hundred-something points lower. Keith's stomach churned. He had so far to go.

"Congratulations, Keith, Maria, Jae-Hee," Iverson said. "You each get three passes for post-curfew returns on a Friday or Saturday evening." A number of people clapped, startling Keith. Iverson held up a hand. "Not so fast. We'll be posting logs for the top five scores. Make time and review them. I expect to see everyone up at those heights, soon. Dismissed."

 

 

 

Shiro thanked the senior instructors with divided attention. He still had no idea why Roy'd thought Keith panicked in that flight simulation, but there was no doubt Keith was on the verge of panic, now. He hadn't moved from his seat, and visibly flinched every time someone put a hand on his shoulder or arm.

The students were loud, groups gathering around each of the top three, congratulating them, asking them about their flights. Shiro nodded to whatever Montgomery was saying, excused himself, and edged through the crowd thronging Keith's seat. Even Ana hadn't been able to move, swamped by the rest of the group.

"Hey, give him some air," Shiro said, gently guiding away the two fifth-years who'd just missed being in the top three. "That's enough. You'll see each other at dinner."

Keith hunched down further, if that was possible. Shiro laid a hand on his shoulder, confused when Keith relaxed only to tense again. That wasn't the usual reaction.

"Come on, cadet, walk it off." Shiro let go and backed away. The rest of the student pilots took the hint, thanking the testing instructors, and leaving in groups of twos and threes.

Slowly Keith came to his feet, weight shifted to the balls of his feet. He was getting ready to run, for the first time in a month. Shiro caught Keith by the shoulder, grip firm enough to reassure. With his free hand, he gave a quick salute to the other instructors, and guided Keith out the door.

A cluster of students stood around the doorway to the elevators.

"On second thought," Shiro said, "Let's take the back way. It'll be quieter." He guided Keith onto the opposite walkway, through the double doors, and down the long back hallway. Shiro headed for the service elevator at the far end of the hall. It was slow, but private, and their voices wouldn't echo up and down seven flights of stairs. Shiro swiped his badge across the elevator's controls, about to hit the call button, then thought twice.

"Keith." He set a hand on Keith's shoulder, turning him to face Shiro. "What's wrong?"

Keith dropped his head, looking away. He practically vibrated, but Shiro couldn't tell if it was anger or fear.

"Talk to me," Shiro said. "What's bothering you?"

"I'm sorry," Keith whispered. He still didn't look up. "After everything you've… I don't think I can do it. I tried, but I'm—" He shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"What—why do you think you have reason to be sorry?"  

"My scores!" Keith burst out. "You've been so—nobody's ever—but I don't deserve any of it. I'm never going to catch up. There's no way I can. And—I'm sorry."

Shiro thought of twenty things to say, ending up with his elbow resting on his fist as he clapped a hand over his mouth. A peculiar laugh kept threatening, and given Keith's hangdog look, Shiro wasn't going to let it out. He took several long, deep breaths, opened his mouth—

And laughed.

Keith immediately looked stricken.

Shiro couldn't help it. He just dissolved. What on earth was in the kid's head that he thought he'd let Shiro down? He'd just wiped the floor with everyone's asses, all the way up to and well beyond anything even Roy had ever managed. And here Keith looked ready to pack himself into a box and ship himself off to the farthest regions of the earth. It was ludicrous. Shiro caught himself, took a breath, tried to look Keith in the eyes, and started laughing again.

He gradually sobered, between Keith's growing irritation and the recollection of Keith's testing scores. He'd seen them all, as part of assessing the fifteen students cleared for the top tier of the jet fighter class. He'd been hoping Keith would come to him for help, and braced for eventually needing to approach Keith about it. He'd practiced what to say, but he'd had no thought to prepare for this. 

Half of Shiro's amusement was at his own astonishment. He should've known. Of _course_ Keith would beat himself up in the wrong direction. Not that he needed to beat himself up over his grades, of course; his classes weren't easy, and he _was_ holding his own. Maybe it was just the way Keith's brain worked, that he'd take an area of clear superiority and turn it into a flaw.

"Keith." Shiro held out a hand. "You have absolutely no reason to be sorry. Congratulations. Really. I'm incredibly proud of you."

Keith stared at the hand, suspicious. "You laughed at me."

"I did. I'm sorry, I am. It's just...you didn't hear Roy cussing a blue streak to see you destroying every single record left of his that I hadn't already broken."

The kid didn't move.

"Keith." Shiro kept his hand out, palm up.

Keith uncurled, tentatively putting his hand in Shiro's.

Shiro didn't turn it into a formal shake. He just held Keith's hand, and moved on impulse, opening his other arm as invitation.

With a soft sound in the back of his throat, Keith stepped forward. It felt right to let him, and Shiro wrapped his free arm around Keith, as Keith dropped his head to Shiro's chest, tucked under Shiro's chin. Keith's other hand came up, clutching at Shiro's uniform. Shiro chuckled again, tightening his hold when Keith tensed.

"The highest score I ever made on that test was 418," Shiro said.

"Liar," Keith mumbled into Shiro's jacket. "You made 700-something."

Ahh, so that was it. Shiro swallowed hard against the threat of more laughter. Keith's grip tightened, and Shiro swayed a little, as if rocking Keith. It was pure instinct; it seemed to be the right one. Keith's grip relaxed and his breathing evened out.

"There's a five-hour written and verbal test. I got 350, but I made up the difference on the flight test." Shiro rubbed in gentle circles across Keith's back. The kid was definitely leaning against Shiro; he might be short, but his weight wasn't that insubstantial. "The real thing is more complex, and it's graded with a combination of machine identifiers and human instructors scoring it… but if this is where you start, I can't wait to see where you end up."

He had to bend his head to hear Keith's mumbled reply. "I thought I'd let you down."

"No. Keith, look at me." Shiro pushed Keith backwards, gently, releasing their hands, and holding Keith by the shoulders. "There is only one way you could ever let me down, and that's by walking away from this amazing talent you have. It's unbelievable. _You_ are unbelievable."

Keith's brows wrinkled. Uncertainty, or disbelief.  

"You can do this," Shiro said. "Everyday, you prove me right, but even if you didn't, I'll still keep believing in you."

"That—" Keith averted his gaze. "That doesn't make any sense."

"I told you before. At some point, you'll crash. Everyone does. It's part of learning. You'll survive. But it won't change that I believe in you. I will _always_ have your back." Shiro straightened up, gentling his hold.

Keith threw himself forward, arms around Shiro's chest. At first Shiro was too startled to respond, then he lowered his arms, hugging Keith in return. After a long moment, Keith let go. When he stepped back, his shoulders weren't so hunched, his expression not so bleak.

Then a tiny smile curled at the corners of Keith's mouth, and he glanced up at Shiro from under his bangs. "Did I really break the major's records?"

"And then some." Shiro grinned, threw an arm around Keith's shoulders, and hit the elevator call-button. "It may take his ego a few days to recover." He looked down in time to see Keith's smile become something both abashed and pleased.

Progress on one front, and total victory on the other. Not bad for a morning's work.

 

 

 

It wasn't Keith's first brush with something akin to celebrity status. He'd had it for a little bit, back when he was nine, and had punched a teacher for mocking one of Keith's classmates.

His adoptive parents had been called, child protective services had swooped down on the school, joined by the teacher, the principal, and several other adults. Keith was left to cool his heels outside the principal's office. In the end, he'd had to apologize to the teacher, and had done so with the greatest air of disinterest his little body could muster.  

For the next two days, he'd been the hero of the school. It had been a heady, amazing experience. Kids whose names he didn't even know said hello to him in the hallway. Kids in the older grades walked past, cool and collected, and gave him a nod like greeting one of their own.

Until the only teacher he really liked had pulled him aside to tell him to be careful about confusing _famous_ with _notorious_. Once she'd explained the difference, he was stunned, then hurt. The only teacher who'd been fair to him, who'd never held it against him that he never had the answers, that he was terrified of speaking up in class, that he couldn't seem to make friends. And she considered him dishonorable.

In the end, it didn't matter. By the following monday, he was back with child protective services. His so-called adoptive parents had cancelled the process and sent him back.

At least this time around he hadn't punched anyone. Iverson had even rewarded him, which was a distant second to the relief that Shiro hadn't been disappointed—though Shiro's humor had stabbed through Keith until Shiro explained. All Keith knew for certain was that every emotion churning through his body had been calmed when Shiro hugged him. That was all that mattered.

The problem was that now everyone _else_ kept touching him, too, and it was driving him mad. He'd escaped by spending Sunday evening in the library, studying. Shiro brought him dinner at the library, going over Keith's math homework, patiently, step by step.

At the gym, then at breakfast, and in the hallways between classes, kids kept trying to slap him on the back. Or stick out their hands like they wanted to shake. Or just calling his name and waving. At first it was annoying, but by lunch it had become overwhelming. If one more person stuck out their hand, Keith was going to use the moves he'd learned in self-defense. He'd gotten to throw Shiro in class, and managed ten feet. He figured he could throw any of the kids around him at least thirty feet. Forty if he was sufficiently pissed, and he was getting there.

The librarians were getting used to him slinking through the stacks, going around the large tables in the open area where kids congregated during lunch. He did remember to let his team know he wouldn't join them for lunch. Janvi and Luiz had cheered him when he'd arrived for their shared biochemistry class, but neither had tried to touch him. They only smiled, waved him over in excitement, and told him about their newest ideas of ways to make steam come out of Montgomery's ears.

Joining Shiro's study hall meant another ripple of congratulations, but that was tempered by the fact that Maria Hernandez was also in the group. Jae-Hee had joined, as well, promptly sorted into one of the study groups. Keith kept his head down, doing his homework, and found that when Shiro set a hand on his shoulder and leaned over him to review Keith's progress, there was no flush of anger, no urge to knock the hand away.

For whatever reason, Shiro had become the one exception to Keith's rule about people touching him. It had bothered him, at some point, he was sure. He couldn't quite figure out when it had become something to want. Adults just didn't make a habit of touching—let alone hugging—a kid like him. Usually they couldn't wait to get rid of him.

Keith didn't know why Shiro wasn't the same, but he wasn't going to ask. He knew it would end, eventually. That was how it always worked. It'd seem good, it'd make him hope, and then he'd do something wrong and lose everything. He clung to Shiro's words: that as long as Keith got good grades, and kept up his scores as a pilot, then Shiro would tolerate having Keith around.

He kept it in the back of his head that someday, he would crash, and that would end it all. Everyone does it, Shiro had said. Keith didn't know what he'd do, when that day came. So he did what he could, turned his attention to his homework, and tried to forget that Shiro's attention—like everything else in Keith's life—had an expiration date.


	10. Chapter 10

Shiro pushed open the door to his quarters and dropped his bag on the desk. He rotated one shoulder, then the other. He'd spent two hours in a hard seat working out his squadron's next hop while the senior flight class took their written midterms, and he was still exhausted from the dawn hop the day before. He'd already cancelled the study session, despite Keith's protests; he should probably get some food, but all he really wanted was sleep. Tomorrow he'd begin the grueling process of grading those hundred exams.

His cell buzzed. Probably Roy, finally over licking his wounds. Shiro smiled, about to accept when he noticed the name. _Iverson_. He set the cell to his ear, wary.

"Shiro speaking," he said.

"My office," Iverson barked. "On the double!"

Shiro shoved the cell in his pocket and was out the door. He took the stairs, down five flights and across the mezzanine to the administrative wing, arriving at the same time as Commander LaSalle and Professor Ryu.

"Let me turn my monitor around," Iverson said, wrestling with the large screen. Professor Montgomery was already present, seated off to the side. "Here's what the hallway security monitors picked up."

No sound, only movement. Nothing jumped out at first, until Iverson pointed out the two students facing off as other students moved around them. Keith, with his back to the camera, and a fifth-year student, another jet fighter. Not one from Shiro's classes, and not one with good enough grades to get into the Sunday group. The traffic around the two slowed, as the argument drew attention. Then abruptly, Keith's hand flew out, so fast it blurred on the screen.

"First punch." Iverson tapped a few keys, and a window opened for a voice file. "Alright, it's finished downloading. The first bit is from a student's cell, and the rest is from Hedrick, who started recording as soon as a student notified him."

The first bit of the exchange wasn't captured, but Iverson had questioned four witnesses, who all agreed on how it began. Luiz and Javni, coming from class with Keith, had been two of the witnesses. Shiro bit back his impulse to tell Iverson to get to the point.

The fifth-year, a boy named Jamie Martin, looked familiar. Shiro racked his mind until he placed the face: the youngest brother of John Martin, who'd been two years ahead of Shiro, and now had his picture in second place in the main hall.

"Apparently it began when Jamie approached Keith, asking about Keith's scores from the fighter jet testing." Iverson's tone was flat, a sure sign of anger far beyond his usual grumpy tones. "Jamie asked whether it was true Keith had hacked the system to switch out his test for an old recording of Major Föcker."

LaSalle snorted.

"Most of the students thought Jamie was teasing," Montgomery added.

"No one really heard Keith's response," Iverson continued. "This is where the first student's recording starts." He tapped a key.

The noise of an afternoon hallway filled the office, then Jamie Martin's voice, so much like his older brother that Shiro felt like he was hearing double.

"Or maybe," Jamie said, voice low but clearly not far from the recording cell, "you cheated, too."

Keith's voice, sharper. "I took the test, I got the score."

"You're a second-year. You've flown, what, twice?" Jamie's laugh was too cheerful. "You're a little too obvious, cadet. Someone's going to figure out how you cheated, and then you'll be gone. Like that." A fingersnap, like a gunshot.

"Come on, Keith." A girl's voice. Janvi. "Let's go."

"No," Keith said. "I didn't cheat."

"Oh, sure, if you say so." Jamie, again. "Just remember, the only other person who's ever topped 400 was a cheater. Don't blame me for being surprised when no one believes you."

The recording ended, and Iverson tapped a few more keys. "The second recording picks up here."

It began with Keith, speaking in a tone that sent prickles up Shiro's spine. "Don't you _ever_ say that again."

"Whoa, no need to get pissed, I'm just telling you the truth." Jamie laughed. In the video, he'd held up his hands, leaning back but not actually moving out of Keith's space. "Wait, didn't you know? He's the only one to ever score full points on the written and verbal, and the only way to do that is bribery, or cheating outright."

"He didn't get a perfect score."

"Grow up already. Everyone knows how it is. Shiro isn't some hotshot pilot. Do the math. Take away 450 for the perfect score, and you're left with only 318 on the flight."

"Shiro scored a 418." Keith's tone hadn't modulated. It was almost eerie.

Jamie laughed. "Bullshit. First of all, it's not even possible. Second, if he was really that good, don't you think he'd be up there? Right now?" That must've been the point that Jamie had pointed up, before turning the gesture into a dismissive hand wave.

Other voices, in the background, half-hearted protests. Jamie's words had them doubting. It was garbled, but it sounded like the onlookers were more worried about a possible fight.

Jamie's voice overrode them. "See, they figured out he did cheat. Why else send him back here? Lucky for him Iverson's protecting him. Can't let word get out that Garrison's star is just a lie."

"You should shut up now," Keith said. Still so calm.

"Hey, I know the truth hurts. If that test was really yours, and you didn't let Shiro pull a few tricks to—let's say, _help_ you—then you really could go places. But you're not doing yourself any favors trying to learn from someone who's nothing but a fake—"

That was definitely the sound of a fist making contact, followed by several students' shouts and a few cries of surprise. No more thumping or growling, though. Instead, Keith's voice, fury to a degree that had Shiro rocking back on his heels.

"You don't know _shit!_ " Keith shouted. "Have you even _seen_ Shiro fly? He doesn't _need_ to cheat! He's here because he's got a flight squadron at the air base and this place needed a teacher. _Luck?_ You should consider _yourself_ lucky if you can learn even one- _hundredth_ of what he knows! Otherwise sit _DOWN_ and shut _UP_ because you will _NEVER_ amount to more than a _pathetic_ —"

A thump, Janvi's scream, and finally—it had taken long enough—adult voices, teachers, breaking things up.

"Now the last part of the video." Iverson hit play.

Keith's punch had been his only strike. It was Jamie who returned the punch, but he didn't get a hit on Keith. Instead, Keith caught Jamie's fist, planted a hand in Jamie's chest, and twisted. A textbook perfect throw and Jamie flew head-over-heels, right out of the video's frame. Shiro was almost disappointed; he would've liked to see how hard that arrogant brat had landed.

A cool hand landed on Shiro's wrist, a subtle reminder. LaSalle glanced at him sideways. Shiro nodded, and her hand moved away.

On the screen, Hedrick and two other professors grabbed Keith from behind, startling him. He fought back with a wildcat's moves, none of the grace he'd shown in that throw. Pure instinct, until they'd forced him down, face-first on the floor. Luiz had his hands out, mouth moving and face contorted with fear, while Janvi was halfway on top of Harris, pulling at his arms, trying to get him off Keith.

Two more teachers cleared the hallway except for Keith's flight team and two other kids who'd been holding up their cells, recording. Hedrick and the others yanked Keith to his feet as Iverson arrived onscreen.

Iverson shut down the video and leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Well."

When no one else spoke up, Shiro cleared his throat. "Sir," he said, "I'd like to speak to Keith."

 

 

 

Keith sat on the metal chair in what had to be the same room where he'd first met Shiro. At least this time they'd just locked the door on him, instead of making him breathe the same air as cops. He hooked his heels on the edge of the seat and wrapped his arms around his shins. His hands still shook, along with an ache in his elbow where one of the teachers had put all his weight into keeping Keith down.

He still couldn't believe they'd gotten the jump on him. He'd been getting lazy, or just tired of being on his guard. The first time in his life of thinking he could stop keeping watch behind him at all times, and look what it got him.

Keith sighed and wondered if Iverson would let him grab his stuff before throwing him out. Those were his jeans, his old boots, his shirt, after all, though he'd probably have to leave behind everything Shiro had given him.

He didn't want to think about Shiro's reaction. Keith had screwed up. There was never any way to fix that. Yeah, that kid had started it, but Keith had thrown the first punch, and then he'd just plain thrown the kid. That made it all Keith's fault, because that's how teachers were.

Keith curled up tighter. He'd known it was coming. He'd just hoped it wouldn't be quite so soon.

The door clicked, then swung open. Keith tensed, gaze on the floor, muscles tensing to leap from the chair and run. But the person stopped before Keith, one step, then another. Feet shoulder-width apart, almost at attention, and the toes were pointed forward, not like most people did with toes out. Suspicious, Keith's gaze travelled up the boots to the dark uniform pants tucked into the boots, up to the gray instructor's uniform, the broad shoulders, and then Shiro's face.

Keith closed his eyes. He wanted to hide.

"Keith." Shiro said nothing else, and eventually Keith looked up. Shiro put out a hand. "We need to talk, but not in this room. Come on."

If Keith said anything, he'd say too much, and he just wanted it over with. His body moved despite his attempt to stay put. He ignored Shiro's hand, though he had to lean on the table, a little. Shiro pushed the door open, letting Keith limp out.

No hand landed on Keith's shoulder. That absence hurt more than any bruise the teachers had given him.

Shiro pointed him into one of the teacher conference rooms. This one held a short sofa, a single chair, and a low table with a white box on it. It had a window, too, looking out across the courtyard. The afternoon light bathed the bland furniture in gold. Shiro closed the door behind him, leaned against it with a sigh, then walked around to stand before Keith, arms crossed.

The door was behind Keith. In two steps he could reach it and be gone, and he'd spent enough mornings running alongside Shiro to know if he chose, Shiro couldn't catch him. He didn't know why he couldn't seem to move. He wanted to cross his arms, but the best he could manage was to hold his sore elbow.

"Well." Shiro sighed. "So there's some things I should be saying."

Keith braced himself. Reminded himself he deserved this.

"Like..." Shiro turned his head, and the setting sun outlined his profile in gold, burnishing his dark hair. Keith could feel the image burning into his memory. "I'm a teacher, now. I know that means I should be talking about what happens when students fight. Or maybe… something about how disappointed I am, and maybe guilt you into apologizing."

Of course he should be. It was what teachers always tried, a regular adult trick, except Shiro wasn't even looking at Keith. Iverson had yelled, so that part was done. This was supposed to be where Shiro offered to help. Or asked Keith to talk about it. Some stupid adult-trick that'd trap Keith, and he'd miss his only chance to run.

"That's what I'm probably supposed to be saying, but I can't." Shiro shrugged, took a step, and sat down on the sofa. It looked more like a collapsed fall. He brought one leg up, one arm wrapped loosely around the leg, and it felt too much like the way Keith himself had been sitting. Shiro leaned his head back against the wall, and covered his eyes.

Keith had no idea what to do. Was this a sign he could run, and Shiro would let him go? But Shiro didn't move, and Keith's feet wouldn't move. In the day's fading light and the room's two lamps, Shiro just looked… _tired_. Every line of his body was gentle, but not in relaxation. Shiro was exhausted.

Keith had done that, he knew. If he could fix it, he would've, but he'd broken enough already. He shifted his weight, trying to convince himself to take the opportunity. He couldn't. And then Shiro started talking, and Keith could barely even breathe.

"I know I should be playing the teacher, but I can't, because I'm too busy being overwhelmed. I don't know what to do, at all, because this has never happened before." Shiro gave a soft, bitter laugh. "Not the accusations. Jamie—that fifth-year—wasn't saying anything new. People have been saying that for long enough. But no one ever defended me, and now that someone has… I find I just don't know what to do."

Keith froze, his body far ahead as his mind struggled to catch up.

Shiro rubbed his eyes—a single peculiar motion that couldn't be what it looked like—and lowered his hand. He still didn't look at Keith. "I used to fight, Keith. A lot. Every little thing would set me off, until Roy put me in the cockpit. Suddenly I had something I could do with all that anger." Another soft laugh. "I wasn't even a top student, because I only did enough to keep flight privileges. It was all I cared about. And even after I learned to hold my temper, too many people had already decided I was nothing but a troublemaker."

The image didn't even make sense. It had to be the usual trick, pretending a history to have common ground. But nothing else in Shiro's tone or body rang true for that. Instead, Shiro sounded embarrassed, almost apologetic.

"I complained to Iverson, once." Shiro shrugged. "He told me that if I was doing my best, then ignore what anyone else said. Same thing everyone said, so I learned to never complain. No one was ever going to stand up for me, except me. I guess they figured, if you're strong enough to fight, you don't need to be protected." He raised his head and looked Keith straight in the face. "Now for the first time in my life someone's defended me—and the honest truth is I'm just trying to figure out how I feel about that."

Keith made a helpless gesture with his free hand, uncertain. He understood the sense of having to look out for himself, by himself. But Shiro was so many things—a fighter pilot, a teacher, an astronaut, even a college graduate. It made no sense that he'd ever had to fight alone.

"I mean, you're six years my junior." A half-smile twisted Shiro's lips. "Maybe I'm supposed to be offended that I need a kid to protect me? But I can't seem to be. Maybe I'm supposed to insist that as the adult, I do all the defending? But that doesn't seem right, either."

Keith lowered his hand from his elbow, when Shiro looked away. Keith studied Shiro: the half-protective position, the slumped shoulders. In the golden light, Shiro looked barely older than Keith.

"I'm not doing a very good—" Shiro broke off as Keith moved.

Keith's knees landed on the sofa beside Shiro's stretched-out leg, and he threw his arms around Shiro's neck. It'd felt safe, tucked up under Shiro's chin. It made sense it'd work the other way around.

Shiro made a muffled sound against Keith's chest. For a long moment Shiro didn't move. Keith cringed, unsure how to back out now that he'd committed himself so completely. Then Shiro's arm came up, wrapping around Keith's waist.

Another muffled sound, like a quiet laugh. But not at Keith. It sounded almost like the laugh Shiro had made the first time Keith had successfully smashed and dodged one of the racers in that street race simulation. Delighted. Surprised, maybe.

Shiro lowered his leg and brought his other arm around Keith. Shiro turned his head, and he really was leaning into Keith, a little. Pleased, sort of embarrassed, and with no real idea of else he should do, Keith settled for rubbing Shiro's shoulder in little circles. He hoped that felt as good as it had when Shiro had rubbed his back.

"I don't care what any other assholes did," Keith said, startled he still had a voice, and it wasn't wavering. "They're assholes, so I don't care anyway. But I will _always_ defend you. Anyone says shit about you, they're going to have to deal with _me_."

Shiro did laugh, at that, but he also pulled Keith close, and that made it alright. Keith patted Shiro's head, not sure if that was also part of a hug. Maybe he'd seen it in a movie, but it seemed like a good thing to do. Shiro snorted against Keith's chest, then relaxed his arms, letting go.

Keith crawled backwards off the sofa. His ears felt hot, and he wasn't sure why. It was more important that Shiro was smiling, but he still looked worn. It finally clicked: Shiro wasn't getting enough sleep. Keith made a note to figure out what he'd do about that.

"Alright," Shiro said, and sat up, moving Keith around to stand in front of him. He reached past Keith for the white box. "Jacket off, and let's see what's going on with that arm, then I'll look at your ankle. If I can't fix it with battlefield medicine, though, you're heading to the clinic."

Too confused to argue and not sure whether he should, Keith undid the jacket's top two buttons and pulled it over his head. He wore a regulation white undershirt. He shivered in the room's slight chill.

Shiro crunched a small bag between his hands, and placed it against Keith's cheek. "Hold that there."

Keith hissed at the cold, but didn't complain. He was too busy trying to squash the hope that somehow, everything was not actually broken. Yet.

"Now, tell me when it hurts," Shiro said, "so I know how much to take out of Hedrick's hide for being an overeager bully."

 

 

 

Shiro ended up having to take Keith down to the clinic. His knee had gotten jammed at some point, and the clinic put a brace on. Keith handled it well enough, until the doctor had said the brace had to stay on for a week. No exceptions. That prompted a murderous stare of the first degree; Keith clearly understood the doctor meant no gym, no self-defense classes, and no simulator time.

While Keith glared holes in the doctor, Shiro waited outside, using the time to call LaSalle. She agreed that being grounded a week was punishment enough, all things considered, and Iverson had dealt with the older kid. There was no way around the situation with the teachers; even Montgomery had admitted those three had handled the situation badly. But that meant two weeks without pay for them, and that meant needing substitute teachers to take over.

Iverson had no hair to tear out, Claudia added, so he'd been reduced to pulling on his goatee rather viciously.

"I'll keep a low profile for a few days," Shiro promised.

Keith was released with a two-day prescription of mild painkillers and an ice pack to go. His left arm was in a sling while the swelling in his elbow went down, and the knee-brace was too bulky to fit under his pants. The bruise on his cheek wasn't too bad, and would hopefully fade by morning. None of it seemed to bother Keith at all, and if Shiro hadn't always paid such close attention to Keith anyway, he might've missed that Keith's chin was up higher, his shoulders squared.

They walked in silence—well, Shiro walked, while Keith gradually shook off the limp. At Keith's floor, Shiro stepped off with Keith, prepared to escort him if necessary. The floor guard passed by on his rounds, and Shiro was able to explain. The guard only saluted and moved along.

"Good night," Keith said, softly. He turned to go.

"Keith," Shiro said, and caught Keith by the shoulder. The reaction was immediate and noticeable; Keith's muscles relaxed, although he quivered slightly. Shiro bent over, looking down at Keith's upturned face. "You need to know... just because I'm older than you doesn't mean I always know what I'm doing. I'm trying to do my best, but at some point if I mess up, all I'm saying is… don't give up on me, okay? If I screw up, give me a chance to fix it."

Keith's eyes glittered strangely in the hallway's lowered lights, for a moment, then the impression was gone. "Likewise," Keith whispered, and smiled.

 

 

 

* * *

 

I just found out [ghostiekins](ghostiekins.tumblr.com) did fanart for this chapter --oh wow! [so beautiful, go see!](http://ghostiekins.tumblr.com/post/165939968753/please-read-slip-the-surly-bonds-by-sol1056-it-def)


	11. Chapter 11

Keith ached all over when he woke, but it was no worse than any other time. Except for the twinges in his knee and the stiffness in his elbow, it was much like the first week of going to the gym with Shiro.

Oh, shit, the gym. He rolled over, checked the clock, and realized he wasn't supposed to go. Getting back to sleep was out of the question, and after a moment's thought he was up, dressed in his uniform, with his bag over his good shoulder.

Shiro was already at work in the gym, and Keith positioned himself on one of the benches inside the entrance. He reviewed Boxer's notes for Palmer's mid-term, in between keeping careful watch on Shiro. It had taken him awhile to realize Shiro didn't really train for strength. He trained for endurance. Odd, then, that he was only doing three reps with each set of weights, instead of his usual five.

Or not so odd, considering the exhaustion he'd shown.

Keith put his head down, ignoring the sights and sounds of the gym, and finished reading his notes. By the time he was done, Shiro stood before him, legs braced shoulder-width apart, arms crossed, hair still wet and his teacher's bag over his shoulder.

"You're not allowed in the gym this week," Shiro said, and gave Keith a hand up. "How's the knee?"

"Not so bad." Keith wasn't limping, at least. "When did you go to bed?"

"What?" Shiro pushed the gym doors open, holding it for Keith. "Bedtime. Why?"

"You look tired."

"I am tired." Shiro shrugged. "I have a lot of exams to grade. Need to get those in. I can sleep late on Sunday."

"You should be sleeping, now."

Shiro laughed, and when he clapped Keith on the shoulder, his touch was light. "If only. Come on, or we'll miss our chance at donuts."

Keith's flight team waited outside the cafeteria, at least a half-hour earlier than they'd ever appeared. Luiz nearly shrieked, but at least he didn't try to hug Keith, or pound on his shoulder.

"You sure you should be walking on that leg?" Janvi looked Keith over. "Did the doctor give you any medicine?"

"Yes, yes," Keith said, but he didn't protest when Shiro put their breakfasts on the same tray.

If he hadn't had his flight team on one side, and Shiro on the other, he wasn't sure he would've ever come back to the cafeteria. Not after they walked through the archway into the dining hall and the entire massive room rippled with whispers and fell silent. Keith hesitated, then Janvi nudged him, moved around him, and led the way with her chin up to Shiro's preferred corner table.

They didn't discuss the day before. Keith could recall Luiz shouting, and at some point he'd turned his head to see Janvi grab Harris' arm and hang on. It was hard enough to absorb everything Shiro had said. Confronting anything similar in his flight team was out of the question.

Most of the teachers ignored him, which was fine by Keith. Some of his classmates whispered behind their hands, but most also ignored him. The day's only real irritant lay in realizing his injuries meant he, Janvi, and Luiz would receive an apparently impromptu oral exam from Montgomery, instead of the simulation-exams their classmates got.   

"We'll have to save our ideas for once you're better," Janvi assured him. Luiz flashed him a grin, and the three said their goodbyes.

No homework all week, and Shiro grading exams meant there wasn't even a study hall. Keith didn't particular enjoy studying, but he didn't want to fall behind, either. No one else seemed to agree with him, and he trudged back to his room where he could at least take off the sling.

What was Shiro doing? He'd said nothing about dinner, and without the study group, there was no reason to go to the library, and wait for Shiro to bring dinner to him. Keith left on his regulation pants, but traded the jacket for his favorite t-shirt. He debated bringing his tablet to study. There were no exams on friday, and Janvi had said a lot of students would be leaving that evening for a three-day weekend with their families.

Keith wondered, just for a moment, what that might be like. Then he put that thought away, left his tablet on his desk, and went to get two dinners to go.

The cafeteria was almost deserted, enough that the woman checking ID at the front doors wasn't that rushed. No, she said, she hadn't seen Shiro come by. Keith loaded up one to-go container with a heaping of everything, then made a second container for himself, and carried both out, headed for Shiro's quarters.

He got turned around once, and had to duck back behind a corner twice to avoid passing instructors. It was one of the rules they'd hammered in during orientation: instructor floors were off-limits to students without explicit written permission from Iverson. Keith did have three after-curfew passes in the system. He was willing to see that as written permission, of a sort.

Unlike the student hallways, the instructors seemed to have their doors open, if they were around. At first he considered trying to gauge whether the resident was looking towards the door to see him, until he remembered the containers in his hands. He was simply making a requested delivery—and when he strolled down the hallway like he belonged, no one stopped him.

Shiro's door was half-open, as well, and Keith paused in the doorway, startled to find an instructor's quarters were only a little bigger than his own. The door on his left was a bathroom, and he spared a thought of envy for such privacy. Beyond that, the main room, with big windows looking out on the desert. Shiro sat on the room's single bed, propped up by what looked like a sofa arm. He had one leg outstretched, one bent, and a tablet resting on his knee, arm resting on the sofa back. The bed actually looked more like a sofa. Maybe one of those that could unfold into a bed twice its width. Keith wondered if instructors were allowed to have overnight guests.

A desk with a lamp, a chair with Shiro's bag, and a little alcove with a coffee pot and two mismatched cups. A poster on the wall for the latest covered-pod flyer. Keith nearly tripped over the boots, dropped by the wall. Shiro continued frowning at his tablet, unaware. Keith juggled the containers in his arms enough to knock on the wall.

Shiro looked up, frown shifting to confusion, then surprise. "Keith? What are you doing here?"

"I figured it was my turn to bring you dinner." Keith held out the containers.

Shiro set down the tablet and got to his feet with a soft groan. He wore a pair of loose dark gray sleeping pants that hung low on his hips, and a white t-shirt that fit him far more snugly than any of t-shirt had ever—or probably would ever—fit Keith. Shiro shuffled forward, giving the containers a suspicious look.

"How hungry did you think I was?"

"The top one's for you. The bottom one is mine." Keith dug into his back pocket, producing silverware. "I wasn't sure what you were hungry for."

Shiro's brows went up when he opened the container. "So you got me two helpings of everything?" He took the silverware with a grin. "It looks good. Thanks, Keith." He sat down on the sofa, one leg curled under him. "Sit, eat. You came all this way, after all."

Keith noticed Shiro's bare feet, and the boots by the door. "Should I take my shoes off?"

"I prefer it, but you don't have to."

If Shiro preferred it, that was good enough for Keith. He toed off one boot, then the other, and joined Shiro on the sofa. They ate in comfortable silence, and Shiro must've skipped lunch, because he finished the entire dinner. Keith took longer, relishing the moment, but eventually he was down to the last few vegetables.

"Are you done grading papers, yet?" He asked.

"Done?" Shiro groaned and leaned over to set the empty container on his desk. "Not even close. I'm about halfway through the short answers on the physics exams, and after that, fifty simulation exams for the senior jet fighters' class." He grinned, settling back on the sofa, arm along the back, turned slightly to face Keith. "If I'd realized how much work this is, I might've fought harder against this assignment."

He hadn't wanted this assignment? Keith stabbed at the last of his green beans.

"Or maybe I should've declared there are no midterms in my classes," Shiro amended. "Either way, it's done, and now I have to get the grades in before tomorrow at midnight. End of the quarter."

"Oh." Keith closed the container and set it on top of Shiro's. "Can I help?"

"What?" Shiro's surprise melted into a soft chuckle. "I appreciate it, but really, I'm fine."

"You look tired." Keith turned the desk chair around and sat down, hugging the seat-back to his chest.

"Thanks." Shiro's tone was dry, but his mouth curled up at the edge. "Fine, yes, I am. I'll survive. This isn't the first time I've had several late nights in a row."

A few in a row was one thing, but Keith was getting the sense it had been more than just a few. "How do you test the fighter pilots?"

"A combination of multiple-choice because I decided to be lazy, and a timed simulation run." Shiro rubbed his forehead, then swiped through his tablet. He opened a file, and handed the tablet over to Keith. "It's sort of like the logs from your test, but it's already broken into sections, and each one gets scored separately."

Keith scrolled down, then down again. His test had only been six moves, maybe seven. These tests had fifteen. "How long did this take?"

"What, the flight? They have a half-hour. Since it's simulation run, I didn't have to be there. Fifth-years sign up for a time slot, swipe their badge, run the test, and their log's recorded." Shiro held out a hand for his tablet. "I just have to review and grade."

"I can do that." Keith twisted the chair so Shiro couldn't reach. "It's just like the way we scored the tests on Sunday, right?"

"I'm hardly going to have you grade flight exams for nearly-licensed pilots, Keith. There are nuances you're not going to get."

"I can tell when they did it right," Keith insisted. There were values in gray, alongside the student's logs. "This is the top and bottom range, right? If they're within that, then they did it right."

"Yes, but—"

"Then I'll mark the ones that are obviously right, and leave the rest for you. Most people would get at least half right, and that'd cut your work in half."

Shiro's brow quirked. His hand was still out, reaching for the tablet. "You realize I could win this one, Keith."

"But you don't want to." Keith knew he was right when Shiro didn't just snatch the tablet. "So you do the physics exams, and I'll mark the parts that are right."

"Keith."

"If we do it together, it'll go faster." Keith swiveled the chair so his hands were completely out of Shiro's reach without a significant lunge. He planted his socked feet into the carpet, leaned back, as if prepared to fight Shiro for it. Which he was, if he had to.

Shiro was quiet for a long bit, then sat back, giving in. "Hand me my bag."

"What for?"

"I can hardly grade the physics exams on the tablet if you're using it."

Within a few minutes they were settled, with Shiro's length along the sofabed, and Keith curled up on the desk chair. Keith had quickly gotten the hang of the little grading application, and found it was easier to grade the same step in each exam. He was maybe a dozen flights in, when Shiro shifted on the bed, sliding down a bit as he checked his watch.

"Curfew's in an hour," he said.

"I have a pass for late return," Keith replied.

"Fine. You get an hour past curfew, and then you're off to bed, yourself."

"Yes, sir." Keith snapped a lazy salute without looking.

Shiro snorted, and the room fell silent again, except for the occasional click of the laptop keyboard. Keith finished the first pass of all fifty exams and set down the tablet to stretch, when he realized there'd been no sound from Shiro.

The man had fallen asleep, laptop askew on his lap. One hand held it loosely in place, but it threatened to slip to the floor if Shiro twitched in his sleep. With every ounce of stealth he'd learned sneaking out of unwelcoming houses, Keith carefully withdrew the laptop from Shiro's fingers, then lifted it off Shiro's lap, closed it, and set it on the desk. He settled back with the tablet, doing another ten scores, one ear attuned to Shiro's breathing.

Deep, slow, and completely asleep. Keith found the blanket folded and laid over the opposite end from Shiro, and carefully unfurled it across Shiro's sleeping form. Satisfied, Keith checked the time. He had another hour, and then he'd go.

He'd barely settled back down when something buzzed from Shiro's bag. Keith froze. Shiro seemed to wake just as the phone stopped buzzing. He mumbled something, slipped down farther on the bed, and rolled over with his back to Keith.

Part of Keith's brain couldn't even comprehend it. Shiro hadn't just fallen asleep with the light on. He'd fallen asleep with his door still open. Keith had never been able to sleep with an open door, and he certainly didn't want the light making him easy to find in the dark. He shook his head at the mystery and bent his attention to the exams.

The cell's buzzing started up again. Shiro grumbled, reaching blindly for the blanket, and pulled it over his head. Keith had a feeling Shiro would definitely wake if it happened a third time. He tucked the tablet under one arm and dug around in Shiro's bag for the phone.

No name, just a number. Keith swiped to refuse the call. He'd just picked up the tablet again when the phone buzzed a fourth time.

Before Shiro could react, Keith was out in the hallway. Answering the phone seemed like his only choice if he wanted to make sure Shiro got the sleep he needed.

"Shiro's phone," he whispered, as low as he could.

"What? Who is this?" A woman's voice.

"Uh, a friend of Shiro's. He can't come to the phone right now." Keith checked the room. Shiro had rolled over again, situated the pillow, and was still. The woman was saying something, and Keith hit the control for the door. Hopefully it was as heavy as the doors on Keith's floor, and would block out any sound.

"I'm sorry," Keith said. "Shiro is sound asleep and I'm not going to wake him. You can call back and leave a message, if you want."

"I see. I'll do that," the woman replied. "Good evening, then."

Keith closed the call and tucked the phone into his back pocket. Best to have it close in case anyone else tried to call.

That was when he turned around and realized he'd just locked himself out of Shiro's room. He still had Shiro's tablet, and his phone, but his boots were inside. He pondered knocking, but that'd defeat the entire purpose. He could go back to his own room, but that would leave Shiro without his cell or his tablet, and what if he used his cell as his alarm?

No one was in the hallway. It was late enough to be deserted. Keith shrugged and settled himself in Shiro's doorway, toes braced against the doorframe. It wasn't the most comfortable, but he'd had worse.

He made it all the way to the fourth pass on the exams. His knee ached, and he'd had to re-situate a few times so his elbow was supported. He ended up leaning his head against the door, tablet propped up on his lap.

He somehow fought the sleepiness long enough to finish the fifth pass. Shiro's cell hadn't rung again, and there was no sound from inside the room. A few minutes resting his eyes couldn't hurt. Keith yawned, tried to settle more comfortably, and was soon asleep, as well.

 

 

 

Shiro woke to soft tapping on his door, and blinked into the darkness for a moment. One head-shake and he was awake and at the door. A guard stood there, pointing downwards, and Shiro looked down to see Keith curled in the smallest ball, almost at his feet.

"Thanks," Shiro mouthed. The guard looked uncertain, and Shiro frowned until the guard saluted and walked off.

Keith lay on his side, knees almost under his chin. His head rested on one arm, and that hand held Shiro's cell. Keith's other arm clutched the tablet against his chest. Shiro crouched down, tugging first the cell, then the tablet, from Keith's loose grasp. With those put away safely in his room and Keith's boots retrieved, Shiro nudged Keith, gently, until the boy muttered something and uncurled.

"Come on, bedtime," Shiro coaxed. He got a hand under Keith's elbows, and hoisted the kid up to his feet.

Keith swayed, eyes mostly closed. He took a step and nearly walked right into the wall. Shiro caught him with a sigh.

It was a long walk, but Shiro wasn't about to deal with throwing Keith over his shoulder and then having to explain to anyone why he was carrying a second-year to bed. It had to look strange enough already, with Shiro half-supporting, half-guiding, the drowsy kid through the darkened hallways. And finally, to bed.

No sign of Keith at the gym the next morning, or at breakfast; Shiro had turned off Keith's alarm, a kind of affectionate retaliation. Keith would wake by noon, like any kid his age would do, given half a chance.

It took four hours in the instructor's lounge, but by noon, all the grades were submitted. Shiro tucked everything into his bag and stood, just as Instructor Mbabazi happened by.

"Is that the look of a man who's finished all his grading?" Mbabazi asked.

"It is. You?"

"Still a class left to go." Mbabazi's smile looked worn. "Heading to lunch?"

"After I drop this off in my quarters. How're the kids treating you?"

"Mostly behaving, so far. They usually spend the first quarter too intimidated to misbehave, anyway." She nodded at two third-years hurrying past with duffel bags. Their salutes were sloppy; they were probably rushing to catch the shuttle into town.

"It's hard keeping up with four classes," Shiro admitted. "I don't see how you juggle that and floor residency, as well."

"It's not that bad, except for the rule against overnight guests." Mbabazi saluted as two of the senior instructors passed. "Speaking of which, so you're finally seeing someone?"

"I am?" Shiro racked his brains. What would give someone that idea? "Where'd you hear that?"

"A little birdie told me." Mbabazi laughed. "Relax, lieutenant, Emily and I go way back. Your secret is safe with us."

Emily. Iverson's assistant. She'd left a message asking about Shiro's participation in some student recruiting event. Emily had spoken with her usual clipped tones; no indication of anything odd. Shiro dug out his cell, and opened up his call log. Two missed calls. A cancelled call, and then a connection, barely lasting a minute. And then a call that went directly to voicemail. Keith had answered, and if Emily was making that assumption, then Keith hadn't identified himself. Shiro wasn't sure if it was better that he hadn't.

He gave Mbabazi a pained smile as they parted. Her own smile seemed knowing.

 

 

 

The new quarter's first monday was overcast, but that was fine by Keith. He'd gotten enough sun for the month, on Saturday. Shiro had taken him to lunch at the Föcker-LaSalle household, and then off for another afternoon through the desert.

They'd eaten leftover fried chicken on the top of a mesa as the sun went down, and arrived back at Garrison as the moon rose. Keith spent Sunday watching movies in his room, with his knee propped on a pillow, and frustrated over missing the jet fighter class. On the other hand, he'd gotten sunburnt badly enough to need the bottle of aloe that Mbabazi graciously loaned him.          

His otherwise good mood was ruined, though, when Cohen kept him after class for a quick lecture about her expectations for student behavior. She didn't quite say it exactly, but he knew she was referring to the fight, the week before. He wasn't keen on annoying her, but he couldn't quite look remorseful, either. He did his best, she seemed satisfied, and he made it to Lee's class just as the class light blinked.

But then Lee held him back for a lecture, as well. Still short enough that Keith wasn't late, but Lee's idea of short was to get right to the point. Hedrick had told him of Keith's record, Lee could see no reason any amount of piloting was worth a juvenile delinquent corrupting good students, and Keith had better be careful. Lee would be watching.

Keith barely kept the scowl off his face. When Lee asked if Keith understood, Keith only nodded.

"I expect an answer, cadet," Lee snapped.

"Yeah, I get it," Keith said.

Lee pulled himself up to his full height. "I'll have you grounded permanently for insubordination, young man. Am I clear?"

Keith clenched his fists, and somehow ground out a _yes, sir_ , and Lee let him go.

Professor Ryu didn't even wait until the end of class. He made a girl in the front row exchange their seats with Keith. When the other girl at the table complained—as did Janvi—that their flight teams were now split up, Ryu allowed Janvi to exchange, as well. Janvi was delighted, being the kind of student who wanted to be up front. Keith had a sinking feeling it wasn't meant as a good thing.

"This is so I can keep an eye on you," Ryu told Keith, who leaned back, arms crossed, and refused to take notes for the rest of the class.   

Palmer took a different approach, simply skipping Keith when she handed out the sets of medical tools they'd be learning. A kid behind Keith raised his hand, pointing out that Palmer had skipped Keith.

"I did no such thing," she told the kid. "He requires guardian permission to be assigned a kit."

What guardian? Keith had no idea who that might be, but the very fact that she'd said guardian and not parent marked him out. He spent the rest of the class with nothing to do, sullenly staring at Palmer, ignoring his classmates' curious looks, and trying to think of any way this didn't mean the rest of his year was torpedoed.

There'd go his grades, and that meant no sunday fighter jet group. He wanted that flight time. He needed that flight time. It was the only way he could at least prove—by doing it over, and over—that his first test hadn't been a fluke.

Shiro had said Keith had an unbelievable talent. What was the good of that, if that was the only thing he could do? One miserable fight, and suddenly every instructor was convinced Keith was guilty. All he'd done was defend the reputation—of someone who—of Shiro, who'd done nothing to deserve that slander. Remembering that kid's words prompted a rush of anger that almost drowned out his fury at the instructors.

At least his boredom in Palmer's class gave him a chance to weigh his options. Call it a lost cause, pack his bags, and leave before they could expel him. He wanted to. It'd be easier. But he couldn't leave behind Shiro, and he certainly couldn't take Shiro with him. Through all his swirling thoughts, Shiro's words kept tumbling through his head. If Shiro screwed up, give him a second chance.

Likewise, Keith had said. The question was whether that was really true.

Keith didn't rush to his self-defense class, but let the kids shove past him in their usual chaos. He made it with a few minutes to spare, but couldn't seem to go faster. Should he say something to Shiro, should he accept too much damage was done, should he say something…

"Keith?" Shiro pushed the door open to the changing room.

The other kids were already out and stretching before class began. Keith was alone, half-dressed, and still undecided.

"What's wrong?" Shiro motioned Keith down, and sat on the bench facing him. "Usually you're the first one out there."

Stay, go. Admit the screw up, lie. Second chance, no second chance.

"Keith."

"Is—" Keith wanted to clap both his hands over his mouth, so he shoved his hands under his thighs, instead, and hunched over. "Is Instructor Chan going to make me sit out the class, from now on?"

"You're only sitting out for a week—"

"But after that..."

"What about it?" Shiro leaned his elbows on his knees, hands out and open. "Talk to me. What happened?"

This was it. Keith took a deep breath and said, "Hedrick happened. Professor Cohen, Mister Lee, Professor Ryu, Professor Palmer…" He couldn't look Shiro in the eye, but somehow he choked out the truth, braced to hear Shiro say the screw-up was just too much.

But Shiro didn't say anything. A minute went by, then more, and Keith dared to look up, just a glance. Shiro was staring off towards the door, and his expression was the darkest, and angriest, Keith had ever seen. Shiro had said he got into fights, as a kid. It was a bit disturbing to see the expression Shiro's opponents must've seen, and it wasn't even turned on Keith full-blast. It still had him shrinking back, though.

"You're not the first kid to come through here with a less-than-stellar background," Shiro finally said. "Iverson's policy is a clean slate, and every instructor here knows it. It's how I got in, and stayed in, and the same will be true for you."

"But all my teachers—"

"Are going to have a word with me." Shiro's tone was anything but comforting. "Come on, class is starting."

Keith followed him to the door, catching Shiro by the sleeve just before they left the changing room. "Are you mad," he half-whispered, unable to look up.

Shiro's hand landed on his shoulder, squeezed once. "I'm furious," Shiro promised him. "This isn't your screw-up, Keith. This is someone else trying to hurt you. Your task now is to keep your chin up, and stay the course. _My_ task is to take that bastard down."    


	12. Chapter 12

Shiro had to breathe through his nose for most of the self-defense class. He wasn't sure if that was why he felt dizzy, or if it had just been that long since he'd been so angry without acting on it, or talking himself out of it. At class end, he escorted Keith to the cargo class and saw the kid settled in. Of all the instructors, Shiro was worried least about Montgomery. It had been the old man who'd pushed hardest for Hedrick's suspension, after all.

No geometry class meant Shiro had the free time to track down Iverson. The commander was standing on the observation deck, observing Montgomery's class as they filed in.

"Sir," Shiro said, and took a breath. "I need your help."

Iverson's soft grunt was permission, and Shiro laid it out.

"And I don't even know who Keith's guardian is, either," Shiro finished. "I'm guessing he's a ward of the court, but I don't know what it'll take if Palmer requires a judge's signature for everything." He fell silent, remaining at attention. The frustration and anger still seethed through his muscles; he focused on Iverson, willing himself to be patient.

"No judge required." Iverson's gaze had never moved from the class, two floors below. "The court passed guardianship to me, once Keith was accepted as a student."

Shiro nodded, relieved at least on that account.

"It's been a long road, Shiro." Iverson pulled his attention from the class, turning to look Shiro in the face. They were almost the same height, and it struck Shiro as odd, after so many years of either craning his neck to look up at the big man, or staring at a point around Iverson's chest. "Time was, you wouldn't have come to me for help."

"Yes, sir."

"Time was…" Iverson gave a short laugh. "You wouldn't have helped, at all. This is why I wanted you teaching, Shiro. As a student, it took time, but you learned to rely on others. As a teacher, I wanted to confirm was that you'd let others rely on you, too."

"Sir?"

"You were a ruthless kid, and a vicious competitor." Iverson gestured towards the class; down below, Jae-Hee and his flight team were filing into the simulator. "Once, you would've cut off anyone the instant they held you back."

Shiro tried to weigh those terms objectively: ruthless, vicious. It wasn't even that he chose to cut his losses. It was simply that after a lifetime of moving every year, sometimes every six months, he'd learned early on that no good came from looking back. He supposed that in the cutthroat competition to rank highest in the fighter pilot class, he'd applied those lessons, but he was a teacher, now. It wasn't the same. He wasn't the same.

"Commander LaSalle is handling this, since she's in charge of second-years." Iverson clasped his hands behind his back. "But I'll have Emily pull the class schedules for Keith's flight team. At the very least, they seem to have—" He stopped, staring for a moment at the flight team in question, off to the side, heads together over a tablet. "Do you have any idea what they might be planning, lieutenant?"

Shiro barely glanced down, and it was enough to know the three were absolutely in cahoots. "Not a clue, sir." He kept his expression as bland as he could manage. Iverson's word choices suddenly clicked. "Sir—you mean LaSalle already knows about this?"  

"Of course she does." Iverson slanted a sideways look at Shiro. "Apparently Janvi was texting the commander for most of Ryu's class."

How? In Shiro's time, they'd confiscated all personal devices. Now teachers simply monitored all student accounts during class time. Any form of messaging from a student's device would alert the teacher immediately, along with the content. Janvi had a brilliant mind for comms, if she'd found a way around that. Or, Shiro reflected, more likely Janvi had seen the need, and instructed Luiz to make it happen. That seemed to be the dynamic developing among the three.

"If you already knew, why not tell me, sir?"

"I was curious whether Keith had started trusting you enough to tell you. And…" Iverson shrugged. "I was curious whether you'd finally trust me enough to come to me, first."

Shiro had no idea how to respond; he choked out a simple, "Sir." Was it a matter of trust, or something else? He'd spent his childhood saying goodbye to people. It made it hard to believe they'd come through for him, when he rarely remembered them once he'd moved on.

"Mark your calendar for December, Shiro," Iverson said. "There's an astrophysics conference, and one of the Garrison's scientists has requested a chance to meet you. Name's Samuel Holt. He's got an idea for an expedition to the outer rim of the heliosphere. He's going to require a pilot-in-command who has the chops to get him there and back again safely."

"Holt, sir?" Why did that name sound familiar?

"His son's a fifth-year, here. Fast-tracked in engineering and already taking a fair load of distance courses at the university level. Serious smarts run in the Holt family. Terrifyingly serious smarts."

"I see." For the first time all day, Shiro struggled to center himself not due to rage, but shock. He'd expected Iverson to try and hold him back, not push him forward. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't thank me. Holt and Föcker go way back, it seems, and it's Föcker who told Holt to request you."

"Oh."

"On with you, lieutenant. You still have a senior jet fighter class to teach, and I haven't forgotten you owe me fifty pilots. If Holt finds you acceptable, you may have a destination once you leave here, but my task has priority. Dismissed."

 

 

 

Keith followed his flight team into a small office where Iverson's assistant, Emily, waited. A plump woman maybe ten years older than Shiro, Emily gestured at them to sit in the three waiting chairs. A single red dot marked the spot just above the bridge of her nose, a startling contrast to her bronze skin and dark, level brows. She was quiet for a bit, typing on her keyboard, then she sat back with a smile.

"Keith Jones, Luiz Mendoza, Janvi Samarasinghe…" Emily paused, cocked her head at Janvi, and said something in a language Keith had never heard before.

Janvi blinked, gasped, and answered in the same. Keith was left to exchange puzzled looks with Luiz. Keith had never heard Janvi speak that fast, or that easily, and it was odd to see her gesturing nearly as fluidly as she spoke. She broke off with a grin.

"We're from the same hometown," Janvi said.

Emily smiled, and tapped her keyboard twice. "I've sent your new schedules to your tablets. Please pull them out so we can review." She leaned forward, elbows propped up on the desk, her long brown fingers clasped before her. "Normally we wait until mid-year to rearrange classes for flight teams, but it seems you three have clicked. Unless you request otherwise, we'll consider you an established team."

If it had been worrisome enough to see Shiro so angry, it was an incredible relief to see what Shiro had made happen. Keith was out of Lee's class, joining Janvi and Luiz in their section with York. Luiz had moved into Keith's engineering class, while Keith had also been moved from Palmer's medical class to share the same class with Janvi and Luiz. From morning through to the end of day, they'd only split up for self-defense. Keith suspected that was due to their training, or maybe their heights, but he was fine as long as he didn't have to leave Shiro's class.

"Starting tomorrow, you'll switch to these classes. Try to be early to each, to give the instructor time to explain where you'll sit, now that you're all three together." Emily sat back. "Any questions?"

"No," Luiz said. "I don't think so. Do we have questions?"

Keith shook his head.

"Is Commander LaSalle around?" Janvi asked.

"I think I saw her go by earlier…" Emily checked something on her screen. "It says she's available, so if she's not in the office, she's nearby."

"Okay, thank you!" Janvi shot to her feet. "I'll see you two at dinner." She said something in her hometown language to Emily, who smiled and waved, and Janvi was gone.

The two boys ended up in the hallway, watching Janvi at the far end, talking excitedly to Commander LaSalle. "Wonder what that's about," Luiz said. "I bet it's girl stuff."

Keith had no idea what that meant.

"I have four sisters." Luiz made it sound like the worst fate, ever. "Two older, two younger. It's why I'm so good at making peace. See you at dinner, don't forget study group afterwards."

"Right." Keith tucked his tablet into his bag, and swung his bad arm back and forth, testing. Most of the swelling had gone down, but his elbow still felt a little stiff. He had an hour before dinner.

It'd been a long time since he'd had an hour free, and he wasn't entirely sure what to do with himself. He could go down to the exchange, but at this time of day it'd be noisy with people running errands, picking up supplies for the new quarter, and generally socializing. The library might be quiet, but he didn't really care much for the library unless Shiro was there. Otherwise, it was just a place with a lot of books, most of which had nothing to do with flying, anyway.

He dug his tablet back out, searching the school's site for its map. The administrative wing, the last place he'd ever go. Cafeteria, student R&R area. One wasn't open yet, and the other, a chaotic place with too many blinking lights, beeping games, and televisions that never got turned off, or even turned down. The cargo flight simulator, probably booked.  

Second level, the auditorium, lecture halls, the instructors' lounge, and the observation deck. The doors off the observation deck led to L-2 south and the instructors' quarters. Keith couldn't think of an excuse to visit Shiro, so that was off-limits again.  

Third level, classrooms for first- and second-years. Boring, and empty. Fourth and fifth levels, dormitories. Sixth level, classrooms for third, fourth, and fifth years. For the first time, Keith pondered that the guy—what was his name, again—who'd picked a fight must've come down from his own class level specifically to find Keith. It was even less of a chance thing than Keith had realized.

Seventh level, more dormitories. But above that, an eighth level. Keith tapped the floor plan, curious. Another lecture hall, some meeting rooms, and an observatory. For what? It wasn't marked secure, or off-limits. He tucked the tablet away, found the nearest elevator, and hit the button for L-8.

The halls were the same gray and dull-silver as the rest of the floors, with the awkward bulkheads styled like one massive, extended space station. The carpeting underfoot muffled his footstep as he wandered the floor, seeking the double doors for the observatory. They opened at his approach, then closed behind him, leaving him in an antechamber. There was no place to swipe a badge, or wave a hand, to make the next set of doors open. It took a moment to realize the light was dropping, as well, slowly, but gradually. The antechamber's lights blinked out just as the doors before him slid open.

Keith instinctively braced himself for bright lights blinding him. He'd expected—and hoped for—a panorama of windows looking out across the desert. No luck. The room before him was dark. Not entirely, though—the ceiling seemed to curve up and around him, tiny points of light glittering in strange patterns.

He stepped forward, and the only sign the doors had closed behind him was a soft rush of air. Keith didn't move, disoriented by the combination of complete darkness and glittering lights. Slowly patterns formed. One constellation, then another. A faint throbbing red of a distant star, or planet. When he looked down, there were more lights.

Ahead of him lay the milky way, a startling brightness of a million stars blending together into a broad swath across the night sky. A single figure stood there, a dark silhouette against the brilliant celestial river. Some other soul seeking a break from the noise and people, probably. Keith could respect that. He moved forward, as quietly as he could, keeping his distance, until he could see more of the person's profile.

Shiro. Keith couldn't quite make out Shiro's expression, only that he stood at ease, arms crossed, studying the stars.

Keith took a few more steps forward, letting his footfalls warn Shiro, who turned just turned his head slightly, as if in acknowledgement. Why would Shiro be up here? Was Keith intruding? If he was, Keith would respect that, too, and go, but first…

He stepped up behind Shiro, and put his hand on Shiro's shoulder. "Hey," he whispered.

Shiro turned a little at the touch, and in the starlight, his smile was welcoming.

"Thanks for… all that," Keith said, at a loss. He squeezed once and let go, crossing his arms to echo Shiro's stance. "I didn't even know this was up here."

"I come up here, sometimes, when I want to think."

"Oh." Keith shifted, but Shiro shook his head.

"You weren't interrupting." Shiro's laugh was almost more of a breath, in the room's perfect silence. "Somehow you've become one of the few exceptions to that rule."

"Oh." Keith craned his neck to stare at the stars directly overhead. "It's very pretty. Is this… what it's like, out there?"

"No, yes, and no again." Shiro tilted his head back. "For one thing, the earth's in the way of half of it, or more. If I imagine earth is behind me, then... This isn't perfect, but it's probably as close as we'll get, from here."

There was a wistfulness in Shiro's tone that had Keith thinking twice about speaking. Instead he stared up as well, trying to work up his nerve to ask what patterns Shiro saw, that were only glittering lights to Keith. Before he could, Shiro's watch beeped.

"Back to reality, Keith." Shiro clapped Keith on the shoulder. "Let's get some dinner before the study group meets."

 

 

 

Shiro set away his disappointment that Keith hadn't asked anything more about the constellations in the observatory. He still held out hope that Keith might one day join him in the space program, but if Keith chose being a fighter pilot, Shiro would be the last to stand in his way.

It had been a long time since he'd visited the observatory. As a student, it had become his place of retreat when the simulators were off-limits for whatever reason. His first three years, he'd fought twice, and LaSalle had reset the clock with each new school year. By his fourth year, he'd learned to walk away. He'd couldn't walk it off, but he could stare at the stars, and remind himself that something greater lay beyond. Somewhere, something marvelous waited for his discovery.

But that time hadn't yet come, and despite Iverson and LaSalle doing their best to see to it that all their students were treated fairly, it still rankled Shiro that neither had addressed the question of Hedrick spreading gossip among the instructors about Keith's background. He pushed that to the back of his mind. He needed to focus; with the new quarter, there were new faces in the library's meeting room. Shiro rearranged the groups; Keith sat with his flight team, discussing their homework in hushed undertones. Shiro did a round and excused himself, leaving the group to Hernandez' supervision.

At this time of the evening, the instructors' lounge would be busy, the daily social hour before got down to an evening's work. Hedrick might be suspended, but he still had his quarters, and the lounge was as much part of his schedule as the study group was of Shiro's.   

Shiro entered the lounge, greeting Mbabazi on her way out. No sign of Roy, nor Iverson, nor LaSalle, and Hedrick sat in the back corner with a half-dozen of the other younger instructors. Shiro hadn't been welcomed into their circle, but they'd all been his older classmates, back in the day. They hadn't liked him, he hadn't liked them, and Shiro had no illusions that would ever change.

He crossed the lounge, skirting several other groups, and stood at the edges of Hedrick's group. Hedrick sat with two other instructors. Three more stood around the table, while others flanked the group, leaning against the wall as they checked messages, or read aloud a particular egregious student test response from their tablets.

Hedrick must've just sat down for a late meal; his tray held the evening's soup, a beer, some bread-sticks. He had a bread-stick halfway to his mouth when he noticed Shiro standing over him. Hedrick took a bite, setting the bread down and wiping off his hands.

"What do you want, Shirogane," he asked, in a bored tone.

"I _want_ you to leave students alone." Shiro bent over, taking the fork from Hedrick's tray. Shiro twirled it through his fingers like a pen, and Hedrick watched the movement with narrowed eyes.

"You stab me with that," Hedrick warned, "and the damage you'll do to your record will be a lot worse than any you do to me."

"I have no intention of stabbing you." Shiro set the fork down on the table and laid his palm down its length. He leaned forward, knowing his motion would capture Hedrick's attention. "You and I have history, Hedrick. But any student I mentor is not part of that history, and you would do well to keep your hands _off_." He kept his voice too low to travel far, knowing Hedrick would have to strain to listen. Shiro slid the fork forward until the tines were under the tray.

"It had nothing to do with you," Hedrick insisted. "I can't let coworkers head blind into a bad situation with a kid who's just going to drag the rest of his class down."

"Hedrick?" Shiro paused, waited until Hedrick blinked at him, confused. "Go to hell."

Shiro slammed his fist down on the end of the fork. The tray flipped up, and Shiro knocked it forward with his palm. The beer splashed across Hedrick's face, followed by the soup. Breadsticks went flying as the tray flipped over and landed with a clatter, upside-down on the table. The entire lounge was immediately silent, every person on alert.   

"I broke your arm once already, Hedrick," Shiro said. "You mess with _any_ of my students again, and you will look back with fondness on the time you screamed in pain and begged me for mercy. Because it'll be _nothing_ compared to what I'll do now."

He straightened up, slid the fork across the table to hit the tray, and walked out.

Shiro was halfway back to the library when someone with a long-legged stride fell in beside him. Roy. Of course someone had called him. Just like old times. By the end of Shiro's first year, he'd almost grown accustomed to the response; if his fists came up, a dozen cells were immediately out to text the Major, or one of the commanders. Or all three.

"Some remarkable restraint," Roy murmured. "Thought Iverson told me you weren't flipping tables, anymore."

"I didn't flip the table, Roy." Shiro kept his voice level. He wasn't a student anymore, but he still didn't want to get a disappointed lecture from his mentor. "The tray doesn't count."

"Feel better?"

"Not really."

"Taka, stop." Roy set his hand on Shiro's shoulder, and steered him away from the elevators. Off to the side, where the broad windows looked down on the cargo flight simulator. "I think you've taken that focus up a bit too much, boy. Remember what's behind and beside you. There are more objects in this field than just one kid."

"The rule is every kid gets a clean slate. Hedrick—"

"You're so busy protecting the kid's six that you haven't even realized what's on your own?" Roy shook his head. "Life isn't a single-fighter simulation. It's a dog fight, and you don't seem to realize you're in one of the worst kinds."

Shiro's mind caught up. "My own six?"

"Taka, no one really cares about the kid. Hey, no, listen to me. I mean in a personal sense. You could've chosen to mentor a potential pilot as smart as that Indian engineer—"

"Sinhalese, sir. Not Indian. She's from Sri Lanka."

Roy snorted. "Don't distract me. My point is, they'd find a way to attack her, too. Grades, background, behavior, who knows, no kid is perfect and every kid is a walking bundle of contradictory weaknesses. They're like one-engine bandits, just as likely to blow you out of the sky as they are to blow themselves up."

Shiro got the metaphor, but still couldn't see where Roy was heading.

"When you walked through that gate for the very first time, your reputation came with you. Son of a high-ranking officer. Untouchable, uncontrollable. And then you proceeded to blow past every expectation, and set nearly every record on fire. Most of which were my own."

Roy's hand was still on Shiro's shoulder. He gave Shiro a quick shove, and Shiro couldn't stop the abashed grin.   

"I know you're not the kind to care what lies behind you, but most people aren't like that." Roy squeezed Shiro's shoulder once more, and let go, turning to stare out the observation deck's huge windows. "No one has anything personal against that kid. They're just shooting wildly. Their goal is you, but if sending the kid into a death spiral damages you by some means, they'll take that as a win."

Shiro felt like a fool. A childhood of walking away meant he'd assumed a clean slate on his return. Or if not clean, at least far enough in the past to be unimportant. He was a fellow teacher, now, and he'd done his best to reflect that change in his interactions. It was both annoying and mortifying to realize his new peers' view of him hadn't changed. Taller, not so stocky, and more likely to raise his voice than his fists, but still a kid. And one who'd threatened, glared at, and argued openly with more than his share of them.

He sighed. He'd been wrong; Cohen hadn't forgiven him for that time he shoved the lab table so hard it slammed against the wall, took a chunk out of the concrete, and broke the safety glass. And that was the least of what he'd pulled. Enough that by his third year, LaSalle had amended her instructions to forbid destruction of significant property.

"Are you listening to me, Taka?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Because if you finally flame out and take a dive, I expect they'll leave that kid alone, for the most part. He's just collateral damage. You're the real target, and it's time you realize that."

Shiro frowned. He'd made promises, and he had no intention of breaking those. How ironic to realize the promises might not have been necessary, if it were any other instructor. Shiro had to have Keith's back, if only to protect him from the damage of being too near.

"Taka." Roy glanced down his long nose, blue eyes boring into Shiro. "Claudia had lunch with Emily, who said you're dating someone. Apparently she called you after-hours about a last-minute meeting, and someone else answered."

Shiro could feel the flush starting at his chin, and working up to his hairline. "Ah, I was asleep—" Oh, that made it sound worse. He clamped his mouth shut.

Roy gave a soft laugh, more of a snort. "It's not a bad thing to let someone else guard your six, you know." He elbowed Shiro as he turned to go. "Think about it, Taka. It might be time you figure out a way to fight _with_ someone, instead of against everyone."

Shiro watched his longtime mentor stroll off. He checked his watch. Another hour and the study group would end; he should be getting back. On second thought, he dug out his cell and did a search on Dr Holt, whistling at the man's credentials. Shiro tapped out a quick email, introducing himself, and expressing his plans to be at the astrophysics symposium in two months.

It'd give him enough time to prepare Keith for a week without Shiro looking over his shoulder, which reminded Shiro that he needed to think about what to do—no, he didn't. He knew that, all the way down to his bones. He liked the friendship they were creating, and he wanted to see where it went. It had less to do with promises, and a lot more to do with the unexpected sensation that perhaps—for the first time in his life—he'd found a friend he would not, could not, walk away from without ever looking back.   

 


	13. Chapter 13

Keith checked his tablet on the way to class. Grades were in, and he had to pause in the hallway and take a deep breath. According to his spreadsheet, he was pretty sure of his grades in everything but self-defense. If he'd only managed a 3, then he'd have a 3.375 GPA and he'd be left out of the jet fighter group for the next quarter. He didn't even want to think about a 2. He'd still have a 3.2 average—which frankly was astonishing enough—but nowhere near good enough.

He had to try three times before his hands could hold still long enough for him to click on the notification.

It took another deep breath before the words and numbers made sense.

3.75 in Montgomery's class. Somehow his expected 3.5 in math had turned into a 3.75, too. The 2.75 in medical, that was going to make things rough, since Shiro said classes would just get harder. 3.5 in engineering. 3.5 in biochemistry. And one 4 in self-defense.

His head slammed into the wall. He'd missed the door to Cohen's class by about two feet.

"Keith?" Janvi's touch was light on his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

"I'm not sure," Keith said.

"How'd you do?" She led him into the room, settling down at their shared table in biochemistry. When he checked his tablet again, she smiled knowingly. "Have you told Shiro?"

"Oh. I—" Keith had to check a third time. The final tally was still there. He was in for another quarter of the jet fighter group, and he hadn't let Shiro down. He should tell Shiro. The tablet shook too hard to type on it, though. "I will," he said, and swallowed hard. "In a bit."

"Where's Luiz?" Janvi looked around. "He's usually here first."

Neither of them had the knack for moving through the crowds like Luiz, who simply barrelled through and somehow made people move. The light blinked over the door, and Janvi gave him a puzzled look.

"He was just ahead of us," she said. "Do you think something happened?"

Professor Cohen finished setting up her lecture notes, clearing her throat for roll call.

Janvi's hand shot up. "Keith and I need to find our third." She stood, pulling at Keith's sleeve until he stood up, as well. "Luiz is never late. Something's happened."

"I'm sure he's fine. Austin?"

"Present," a boy called from the back.

"Ma'am, permission to find him and make sure." Janvi caught Keith by the arm, nearly pulling him off his feet. Cohen hadn't even managed a response, and Janvi gave the woman a quick salute. "Thank you, we'll be back right away!" She had the door open and both of them out before Cohen was halfway through her protest.

In the empty hall, Janvi looked one way, then the other. "You try that way, I'll go this way," she ordered. "He's got to be close. Ping me if you find him." She waved her cell at Keith and took off.

Keith clutched his bag to his chest and ran down the long corridor. There were no places to hide, no alcoves or areas out of the line of sight. He skidded to a halt. If Luiz had gotten hurt, or had some everyday reason to be late, he would've messaged Keith and Janvi. So no message meant Luiz had to be hiding.

Where would Luiz hide, then? Keith thought of the places he'd hide, and what he knew of Luiz. He spun on his heel and ran for the stairs, having at least the presence of mind to message Janvi about his hunch. On the observation deck, he ran full-speed along the broad hallway encircling the simulator room.

There were bends and bump-outs along the way, and he was running so fast he nearly tripped over Luiz' toes. The boy was curled up tight with his arms around his knees, head down.

"Luiz?" Keith was dumbfounded. "Luiz? Why aren't you in class?"

Luiz just covered his head with his arms. His shoulders shook, and it dawned on Keith the other boy was crying. Keith tucked his tablet away and lowered himself to the floor, facing Luiz.

"What happened?" He looked Luiz over, a sudden suspicion jumping into his head. "Did someone hurt you? Who was it—"

"No one hurt me." Luiz' voice was muffled by his knees. "I just… I don't know what I'm going to do."

"Do? About what?" Keith heard running footsteps. Janvi, he hoped, and he tentatively put a hand on Luiz' arm. "Luiz?"

"My parents," Luiz said, and Keith's entire body went cold, his heart dropping to his knees. Luiz raised his head, wiping his eyes with his hands. "When they find out—"

The words came from a long way away. Keith blinked, tried to focus, and choked out, "your parents—are they okay?"

"Are they what?" Luiz paused, giving Keith a strange look. "They're fine, but they won't be when they find out."

Janvi landed heavily next to Keith, her eyes wide. "What happened? Why aren't you in class?"

Luiz' face crumpled, and he dug his tablet from his bag, swiped through a few screens, and held it out. "Look. See that?"

Keith glanced at the report email. All 4s down the line, except for a 3.75 in Montgomery's class and a 3 in self-defense. A 3.8 average. Keith stared, awed. Janvi took the tablet and scanned the list.

"Same as me, except I got a 3.5 in self-defense." She shrugged. "I don't like hitting people."

"Oh, who cares about some stupid self-defense class," Luiz moaned. "I'm short and round, okay? My folks gave up on me being a world-class football player a long time ago. No! It's Montgomery's class. An A-minus. It should be my best class, and it's only an A-minus. My folks are gonna be _furious._ " Tears dripped from his eyes, and he sniffled.

Keith had no idea what to say. What must it be like, to have parents who'd even care? Although if they did care, it made sense that bad grades would put everything at risk. He clenched his fists on his knees, unsure whether it would make Luiz feel better, or just more upset, if Keith tried to comfort him. Like, pat his knee, or something.

Janvi beat him to it, putting both her hands on Luiz' elbows and giving him a shake. "Your parents aren't going to disown you for one A-minus. Calm down."

They wouldn't? Keith wondered how she could be so certain. Hell, he'd been thrown out of places for not talking, and other places for saying the wrong things when he _did_ talk. It didn't take much, usually. An A-minus—as awesome as it might be to Keith—probably _was_ less than perfect, when perfect was all anyone wanted.

"Of course they won't disown me," Luiz grumbled. He'd calmed down, but he didn't look any happier. "They'll just make me come home."

"What? Why? You're our comms control," Janvi said.

"But it's expensive, and my folks—" Luiz sniffled, wiped his nose on his sleeve. "We don't have a lot of money, and I have four sisters. Coming here… it's a lot, okay? And as long as I can get a B in phys-ed, they'll overlook that, but anything else…" He teared up again, and swiped angrily at his eyes. "An A-minus… and it should be one of my best classes, too."

Oh. Keith sat back on his heels. He didn't really know much about how to make adults happy, or what would make parents want to keep someone. But he did know adults like having someone to blame. He had no illusions. He'd always been easy to blame, and most of the time it was his screw-up, anyway.

Just like this time.

"Tell them it's my fault." Keith pulled out his own tablet, opened to his report, and showed it to Luiz. "It's a shared grade, after all."

Janvi craned her neck to see. "A 3.5 is really good, Keith."

"You don't get it." Keith wanted to yank the tablet away in frustration, mingled with humiliation, and still a bit of bewilderment. "I've never gotten anything better than a C. In _anything_. I don't even know how I got these grades."

"You worked your ass off," Janvi said.

Luiz' jaw dropped. "You cussed!" 

"Maybe if you tell your parents it's not your fault, it's mine, they'll forgive you, right?" Keith had no idea why he felt like he stood on the edge of something horrible. "I'm the reason you got that grade. It's okay. I know I am."

"That's not how it works." Luiz studied Keith's grades again, and his eyes went wide. "You got an A in self-defense!"

Keith shrugged. He had no idea how that had happened either, but he wasn't going to ask. Instructor Chan might realize it was a mistake and take it away, and he wanted to keep it, for a little longer. It didn't make up for how badly he'd mangled things for his team, though.

"We'll figure it out," Janvi said. "Cohen's going to be mad enough, already. We need to get to class."

Luiz was morose for the rest of the morning, but he didn't cry again, and he seemed to be thinking hard. Probably about how to break it to his parents, and Keith's stomach kept twisting into knots. Luiz had never laughed at Keith, had cheered when Keith flew the simulation fast enough to make steam come out of Montgomery's ears—and along with Shiro, was a big part of Keith passing math at all. If his team got broken up, Keith knew it'd be his fault.

At lunch, he peeled away from his team, looking for Shiro. He found Shiro coming down the hall, phone to his ear, and the preoccupied expression meant Shiro was talking to the planning guy on his flight squadron. Oh, right, it was a week when Shiro flew on a Saturday.

Shiro hung up as he reached Keith, an odd smile on his lips. "Skipping lunch?"

"What? No—" Keith checked to make sure the grades hadn't been adjusted in the thirty seconds since the last time he'd looked, and thrust his tablet at Shiro before he lost his nerve.

"What's—" Shiro scanned the text. His face gave nothing away, and Keith held his breath. Abruptly Shiro looked up, around them, and caught Keith by the elbow. He let go right away, but it was enough to prompt Keith to follow into the nearest empty classroom.

Shiro shut the door behind them, then suddenly let out a whoop that had Keith jumping at least a foot. Shiro opened his arms, and Keith didn't think twice. He threw his arms around Shiro's chest, face buried in Shiro's uniform.

"You did it, kid," Shiro said, one strong arm around Keith's shoulders, the other mussing Keith's hair. "You are all the way around _amazing_ , and I am _so_ proud of you."

Keith wasn't sure if he should let go, but he didn't want to. He clung tighter, Shiro laughed, and squeezed Keith just as tight in return. Then he turned, sweeping Keith right off his feet and around, thumping him on the back. Shiro kept laughing, softly, breathlessly, the entire time. Finally Keith loosened his grip, and Shiro pushed him back, hands on Keith's shoulders.

"Look at me, Keith," Shiro said. "I'm _always_ proud of you. That won't change. Today I just happen to be _extra_ proud." He drew Keith into a quick, one-armed hug.

Keith's cheeks hurt. He put a hand to his face, self-conscious, not sure when he'd started grinning in return. Luiz' worry came back him, and his happiness dimmed.

"Keith?" Shiro didn't let go, but he cocked his head, brows raised.

"I need to do better," Keith said. "I can't let my team down." Or Shiro, but he hoped that went without saying. If he let Shiro down, the team wouldn't matter, anyway.

"It's true there's a lot your flight team knows that you don't," Shiro said, quieter. "But… I bet if you give it some thought, you'll find there are things you know, that you can teach them in return."

Keith frowned. He couldn't see Luiz or Janvi ever needing to know how to get out of handcuffs, for starters.

"No rush, just think about it," Shiro said. "Alright, dinner's on me!"

Distracted by Shiro's grip around his shoulders, Keith could only protest, "But we don't pay at the cafeteria."

Shiro laughed, flung the door open, and swept Keith out into the hall. All through dinner, Keith tried to look cool, but Shiro kept ruining his attempts. He'd elbow Keith and wink, and Keith would go back to grinning like a fool.

 

 

 

Shiro sat in the staff meeting, reviewing the list of honor roll students for the twentieth time. He'd lost two of the fifth-years, and one fourth-year, from the jet fighter group, but all three had taken some heavy electives. Once they found their feet, they'd be back. Of the twelve students who showed up regularly at his study groups, ten had made honor roll.

Right in the middle: Keith Jones, which reminded Shiro all over again of Keith's quiet request.

When the staff meeting was done, Iverson hadn't returned to his office. Shiro made a round while he waited; Mbabazi, Dunkirk, and Begay hadn't yet heard about Keith's success, though in his excitement, Shiro did accidentally tell LaSalle twice. He darted away before LaSalle could get too mad, off to catch up with Iverson at the end of the hall.

Iverson scowled at Shiro's approach. "You don't need to tell me. I knew before you did."

"Yes, but it's not about that. It's something else."

"What now?" Iverson paused outside his door to give Shiro a glare. "You want out of your astrophysics classes three days a week?"

Shiro grinned, knowing if Iverson was seen smiling in public, the man would eat his own hat. "Actually, no, sir. Keith's asked for my help getting some paperwork filed. I just sent you an email about it, with the attachments."

"You did?" Iverson waved Shiro into his office. "Let me look. Paperwork for what?"

"Name change. At some point, his name was changed as part of an adoption process." Shiro sobered, recalling Keith's hesitant—and somewhat opaque—explanation. "He's filled out the paperwork to change it back to his birth name, but the court needs a guardian's signature."

"Here it is." Iverson opened the form. "Explanation looks straightforward, not too many misspellings…" He tapped on the keyboard, one finger at a time, patiently correcting the text. "There we go. Fifty dollars for the court fees—"

"I was going to cover that, sir."

Iverson glanced up. "I'm his guardian, not you."

"Sir."

"Alright…" Iverson clicked a few times, then dug into his back pocket, bringing out his wallet. "Okay, card type is…" He muttered under his breath, dug around for his reading glasses, and carefully punched in the card information. He clicked a key and sat back. "That should do it. I think we may need to arrange a day for him to visit the town courthouse, since this is a civilian issue. Shouldn't take long, though."

"I can take him, sir."

Iverson grunted. "And give you an excuse to take a long detour through the desert? I'm getting tired of complaints from locals about a little red flyer going breakneck speeds on back roads."

Shiro put on his best blank expression. "Sir."

"Right. Well, go on, I'm sure there's at least a few people down in the exchange you haven't told, yet." Iverson looked over the rim of his glasses. "Something else?"

"No, sir." Shiro hesitated, then grinned. "Yes, there is, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Now you're just annoying me. Dismissed."

 

 

 

 

Keith waited in the administrative hall, clutching his tablet with the notification displayed, in case anyone asked. He'd been excused from self-defense for his appointment. His court date was in a week, and he figured it might be related to that.

A door opened opposite him, and a third-year stepped out. "You're Keith? Dr. Dunkirk says you can go in, now."

"Oh." Keith got up, straightening his jacket, and presented himself in Dr. Dunkirk's office. Shiro had mentioned having meetings with Dunkirk, and Keith had gotten the impression that Dunkirk taught the teachers, but he wasn't sure what else the man did. "Hello?"

"Ah, Keith…" Dunkirk checked his screen. "Soon to be Ko-gain, did I say that right?"

"Ko-gah-nay," Keith amended. He didn't know for sure, but he'd liked the way Shiro had said it.

"Alright, have a seat, ko-gah-nay." Dunkirk's desk was against the wall, rather than facing the door. He turned his seat, putting his back to the window, and motioned to a seat beside his desk. "Let's talk."

Keith sat, stomach crawling up his chest to lodge in his throat. He'd done something. What had he done?

"No need to look worried." Dunkirk's bronze face creased in a smile. "We haven't actually spoken before, so let me introduce myself. I'm Dr. Dunkirk. I work with the teachers here to plan appropriate studies for each grade level. I supervise tutoring programs, like the one you've been participating in, with Lieutenant Shirogane."

"Oh." Keith stifled the nervous grin. Weird to hear someone use Shiro's real last name.

"I'm also the school psychologist, but that's not precisely why you're here." Dunkirk sat back in his chair, crossing his legs so his ankle rested on his knee. He wore a regular suit, rather than a garrison uniform, and his socks were an ugly olive green. "If a student is involved with the local court or authorities, I'm alerted."

"Commander Iverson said the court part was just a formality," Keith said.

"For your name? Mostly, yes. The judge might say you're too young to make the request, but I believe there are appeals processes. Besides, it was your father's name, yes?"

Keith nodded, uneasy. It was the name registered as owner, for a little piece of property out in the desert. His father had lived there, and that was the name on the paperwork, and that was about as close as Keith figured he'd ever get to knowing for certain.

"Congratulations on making honor roll, by the way," Dunkirk said. "That must've been hard."

"Uh. Yeah." Keith relaxed, a little, feeling on firmer ground. "I had a lot of help."

"Makes sense." Dunkirk leaned forward to study something on his screen. It was tilted away so Keith couldn't see. "I wouldn't have guessed you could do it, going by your previous school records."

That was before he'd met Shiro. Keith hunched his shoulders, the uneasy sense coming back. If he admitted how much he needed Shiro, was this doctor the kind of adult who'd take Shiro away?

"When we first talked about admitting you, I noted that you'd be one of the younger students in your class. That can make it difficult, trying to keep up with peers more advanced than you."

Like they weren't advanced already, even if they'd been the same age. Keith stared at the man, shoulders slowly tightening.

"Have you made friends?" Dunkirk tapped a key, not looking away from the screen. "Outside your flight team, that is."

A trick question. Keith considered his answer carefully. "Yes."

"Oh? Who?"

No way would Keith name names. He'd learned a long time ago that no matter what he sometimes wished, the truth was none of them would say the same of him. But adults got suspicious if he told that truth, so best to be vague. "My study group. The jet fighter group." That should be safe.

"That's all?"

"And... my self-defense class."

"Of course. Your only A, I recall."

It didn't sound like a question, so Keith didn't answer.

"I'm a little worried about the fact that you got into a fight, though."

Keith clamped his mouth shut, feeling old walls narrowing in around him.

"It's a tough adjustment." Dunkirk pushed the keyboard away and turned to face Keith, ankle on his knee again. Those olive socks really were the ugliest. "Galaxy Garrison, that is. Especially for someone with your background."

Keith stared at him.

"Most of the kids here are from good families, who've worked hard to make sure their kids get opportunities. And the kids have worked hard, too. Lots of them have put in far more time and energy than you or I will ever know."

Keith thought of Luiz, inventing some water radio. Or Janvi, winning third place in her country's robotics competition. What had he done? 'Borrowed' a foster family's beat-up hover because it was the only way he'd reach that little desert house without dying of thirst on the way.

"My job is to make sure every kid here gets a fair shake, and that includes even kids who aren't students anymore." Dunkirk's smile was too fixed. "I want everyone to reach their full potential."

Sure. Twenty crappy guidance counselors in as many crappy schools, and Dunkirk had clearly studied from the same textbook as the rest of them. Keith shifted his weight, a fraction at a time, dug his fingers into the bag across his lap.

"So, Keith, have you thought about what you plan to do with this education?"

The sudden swerve was enough to confuse Keith, and he knew from the twitch of Dunkirk's brow that he'd failed to hide that reaction. Carefully Keith raised and lowered one shoulder, an abbreviated shrug.

"Really? All these new possibilities, and you've given it no thought?"

"I—" If he didn't answer, would Dunkirk say there was no reason for Keith to stay? "I want to go into space."

"That's ambitious."

Keith pressed his lips together. Dunkirk spoke too evenly. Maybe it was sarcasm. Maybe it wasn't.

"Do you think you can make it?"

If Shiro thought he could, Keith could do it and then some. Shiro believed in him, and that made all the difference.

"See, Keith, it's a two-way street. You're getting an awful lot of help, to have made such a massive improvement. That's got a lot of people wondering, and that's the first question." Dunkirk leaned forward, slightly.

Keith instinctively shifted away, until he hit the chair back and there was nowhere else to go.

"But the problem is, when others are pulling you up, you're also pulling them down. You do realize that, right?" Dunkirk set both feet on the floor, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

It made no sense that Shiro had done the same, and Keith had felt like he still had room to move, to breathe. Dunkirk did it and Keith couldn't even swallow. Icy tendrils snaked down Keith's spine and nestled in his belly.  

"This is not just a matter of your fellow students." Dunkirk spread his hands, as if including the entire school. "Do you see where I'm going with this?"

Keith ground out a defiant, "not really, no."

Dunkirk sighed. "Look, I don't know much more about planes, other than they have wings. Given some of the test aircraft that fly overhead, sometimes I doubt I'm even sure about that much. So when someone claims your flight test scores are beyond human limits, I have no idea if that's exaggeration or simple fact."

If there was a point in there, Keith had missed it.

"And personally, I prefer my feet on the ground, too. But I also know what's important. We're still in a space race, not just to colonize, but to comprehend. Let's set aside your baffling scores for a moment. Do you know who's considered the best living pilot, right now?"

The name fell from Keith's lips as though waiting to be said. "Shiro."

"That's right. And there's a lot of very important people who want to make sure nothing knocks him off-course." Dunkirk raised his brows, waiting.

Keith nodded, once. He wanted to disagree, but there wasn't really anything to argue. Of course Shiro was the best. Of course people would want him to do well.

"Now, I'll admit I'm a biased party in this." Dunkirk winked, and Keith jerked back, startled. "Shiro was a school leader, as a student. He could bring everyone together. He has the makings of a great teacher, even if we all know he can—and will—aim so much higher. But we were lucky enough to get him back, for a little while."

Keith held perfectly still. Shiro had plans, but there was time. Wasn't there?

"Don't get me wrong, whatever you can learn from him, you should. But my suggestion is that you think carefully about how much you're monopolizing him."

"What?" Keith hunched his shoulders, angry he'd given away his confusion.

"You can't keep him all to yourself, Keith. He needs to focus on where he's going, and that's somewhere most of us will never reach. Especially you. How much work did it take you, to manage honor roll? Do you really think you can keep that up, over the next four years?"

He could. He had to. Shiro had stood up for him. Shiro had believed in him after a lifetime of no one ever believing Keith, let alone believing _in_ him. Keith would honor that, always. He'd do whatever it'd take. Anything.

Dunkirk sat back. "You need to give it some hard thought, Keith. You can't keep holding everyone back."

No. Shiro had said...

"Especially now, Keith. Do you realize the impact of your flight test?" Dunkirk had retreated, some, widening the distance between them. Not much, but a little. "Like I said, I'm no judge, but some much smarter minds are quite certain no human could achieve that. Now, I'm not saying it's your fault—"

That was a first. Keith swallowed the bitter laugh. 

"But it's raised an old and really ugly shadow over Shiro's head. That fight in the hallway, the one where you hit an older classmate… You realize, now, don't you?" There it was, that fixed, false smile. It went with the fake gentle tone. "No one's ever come close, and it had a lot of people questioning whether he'd... _done_ something."

Keith dug his fingernails into his bag until the stitches creaked. Words bubbled to his lips, and he had to fight to keep his mouth shut.

"I'm simply telling you what people thought, Keith. But, can you blame anyone for wondering, with scores that high?" Dunkirk shrugged, hands spread. "Then along comes someone out of nowhere, and it's Shiro doing the teaching, and with almost no training suddenly that kid is breaking every record across the board. It doesn't seem likely, you have to admit."

No. Keith didn't have to admit anything, but his heart wouldn't stop pounding in his ears. He'd gotten that score, and Shiro had been impressed. Shiro had _praised_ him.  

"Apparently there won't be any fighter jet classes for a week, because technicians are coming to recalibrate the systems. Just to make sure. But that old rumor is back, now, right at a point when an awful lot of important people don't want that kind of trouble."

Shiro hadn't cheated. Shiro didn't _need_ to. Keith had seen him fly. He'd _seen_ what Shiro could do.

"Look, Keith. I need to level with you." Dunkirk rubbed his head. "It's no surprise if you've got a bit of hero-worship for Shiro. We all do, I think. But considering how much time and effort it took not just from you, but from Shiro, too… Sometimes, the best way to help someone is to get out of their way. Let them do what they're here to do, instead of holding them back for our own selfish purposes. You understand, right?"

Keith couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He had the strangest sense that if he did either, something in his chest would shatter. His ribs would crack, his heart would burst, his lungs would collapse inward like two black holes.

"I'm just saying, you need to stop thinking only of yourself. Look around you, and ask whether you can keep going down this path, and whether that's what's best for the people around you." Dunkirk sat back, tapped a key, and made a face at the screen. "Ah, I lost track of the time. Fifth period is almost over, and I believe you've got a cargo piloting class to get to."

If he wore a smile or a frown, Keith couldn't tell. Everything had blurred. He vaguely registered Dunkirk saying something in a pleased tone, like every guidance counselor or teacher. Glad we had this little talk. Something like that.

By study hall, Keith had talked himself out of the lingering fears. Shiro's hand on his shoulder was a solid, reassuring touch, with the hint of a squeeze at the end. Shiro, bending over Keith, pointing out the error in Keith's math homework. The sideways grin he'd give, as he praised Keith for getting two of the hardest problems, perfectly.

Perfection. That's what everyone wanted. It was what Keith had never been.

But Shiro believed he could do it, and Keith was willing to try, a million times, if that was what it took. He wouldn't hold Shiro back. He'd do everything he could to make sure of that.

The following week, Keith had his court date. Iverson took him out of class. Keith's flight mates gave him discreet good luck gestures, as Keith gathered his bag and hurried after Iverson. He settled into the passenger seat of the Garrison desert jeep, and his tablet beeped.

A message from Shiro. Something had come up and he'd have to miss their usual dinner, but he'd be there for the study group. Some quick meeting, nothing important, good luck with the name petition. And if Keith finished his engineering homework in time, Shiro promised to explain angles of attack and what could cause a jet to stall.

Iverson wasn't a big talker, which was fine. Keith watched the desert fly by, until it was more houses than rocks, then businesses, then tall buildings. Deep in the middle of the town, where the courthouse lay. There wasn't much for Keith to do, really. Iverson answered most of the questions. The judge looked Keith over, probably seeing just one more Garrison kid in the orange-shouldered jacket. A single bang with the gravel and Keith's name was his again.

On the courthouse steps, Iverson frowned at the sky, then his watch, and sighed. "Normally I'd take you for ice cream, but I need to get back. We'll have to do a raincheck."

Keith had no idea what that meant, and he wasn't sure he'd ever want ice cream with Iverson, anyway. He climbed up into the desert jeep, unable to keep from checking his bag one more time for the official court record. From now on, the honor roll would say _Keith Kogane_.

The trip back was equally silent. They'd reached the town's outskirts when Iverson's phone rang. Iverson set the phone in a holder on the dash, and smashed a button next to it.

"Iverson," he barked.

"Sir," Emily said, over the speakers. "Dr Holt just arrived. Do you know your ETA?"

"Forty-five minutes." Iverson braked, grunted, and steered around a stalled vehicle. "Longer, if the locals continue to be such incompetent drivers."

Keith stared out the window, trying to pretend he wasn't there, rather than intrude on Iverson's call. He couldn't hide the smile, though. Iverson had even less patience with bad drivers than he did with students, something Keith hadn't thought possible.

"I can have Shiro drive him to Major Föcker's, then, and you can meet them there," Emily said. "Unless you want them to wait for you?"   

Keith could feel Iverson looking at him. He didn't look around.

"No, they should go on ahead. I need to get Kogane back to campus. Let Föcker know there'll be one fewer," Iverson said. "Tell Dr Holt I'll catch him before his flight out, in the morning."

"I'll arrange for Shiro to take—" Emily broke off, and there were voices in the background. One of them was Shiro's. Keith strained his ears, trying to hear. "Sir, Shiro and Dr Holt will meet now, and Dr Holt will wait for you, instead."

"Why aren't they going?" Iverson's glare was loud and clear in his tone. "Dr Holt went out of his way for this stopover. If Shiro blows this, he's going to be running laps until _I'm_ tired of watching him!"

"He says he has obligations," Emily replied.

"You tell him to consider his obligations _cancelled!_ He has new plans, now! Iverson, out!"  

Keith shrank down in the seat, gaze fixed on the desert glimpsed between the last rows of houses, before the end of town. His tablet beeped, quietly, and Keith counted to ten before cautiously withdrawing it from his bag, careful to make sure the precious paper remained in place. A message from Shiro.

_Meeting will be longer than expected. Will be at study group as soon as I can._

No. Dunkirk's words echoed in Keith's head, faint against the sound of blood rushing in Keith's ears. There were important people, important enough that Iverson was supposed to be there, important enough to meet privately with Major Föcker. People who expected great things from Shiro, and Shiro was going to cut it short just to help Keith with homework.

Keith slid the tablet back into his bag without answering. Some part of him desperately wanted to believe it was possible to have everything, but he'd always known the truth. It wasn't possible, and someone as amazing as Shiro—as skilled, as talented, as good at everything as Shiro—shouldn't be wasting his time with someone like Keith.

Travel to the stars. What a stupid dream. There was no way he could ever do that without Shiro. If Luiz had been crushed to get less than perfect in his best class, how much more would it hurt to know Shiro could've gone so far, and didn't? How much more would it hurt, if Keith's selfish wish dragged Shiro down?

Without an appetite, no point in dinner, so Keith went early to the study group. The rest of the group filed in, twos and threes, while Keith kept his head down over his homework. Every problem seemed to take him forever. Every footstep past the conference room door had Keith tensing, but it was never Shiro.

Think about what you can do for your team, Shiro had said. But it was more than that. Keith needed to think about what he could do for Shiro, too.

No, he didn't. He already knew.

How long had he spent waiting? Every morning, waking with the restless fear. Would today would be the day? He'd say the wrong thing, make that final inevitable mistake. He'd demand too much, want too much, and Shiro would finally see Keith as he really was, and walk away.

Keith lay fully dressed on his bed, watching the moon rise over the desert. He'd follow Shiro to the ends of the earth and beyond to repay that debt, but not if it meant holding Shiro back. By the time the moon set, Keith's exhausted mind had finally settled into its decision.

He couldn't keep holding on. To pay the debt, he had to let go.


	14. Chapter 14

Another dawn flight. Shiro hit the alarm, showered and dressed on autopilot, and barely remembered to grab his extra flight jacket before heading down to the garrison's garages. Keith waited for him, shivering in his cadet uniform in the desert's late autumn night chill.

"Here, put this on." Shiro slung the jacket over Keith's shoulders, and buried the smile at how thoroughly the coat swamped the kid. As Keith struggled to push up the sleeves to expose his hands, Shiro caught the jacket's hem, hooked the zipper, and zipped it all the way up to Keith's chin.

"Hey," Keith said, a complaint that ended in a yawn. "Are you sure this is okay?"

"Iverson gave permission. Stay awake, sleepyhead." Shiro opened the doors, and Keith helped him push the flyer out into the open courtyard. "You can sleep while I'm in pre-flight meetings."

"Right," Keith mumbled, and climbed on behind Shiro. His arms slid around Shiro's waist, and he pressed up close, no longer needing Shiro's reminder to leave no gap between them.

Shiro patted Keith's hands, a final check, and twisted the throttle. The flyer's turbines purred. Shiro kept it quiet and low until they were through the gate, then gunned it into a comfortable pace, heading for the airbase ten miles away.

At the airbase hangar, Keith stumbled down from the flyer, flailing at the jacket, unable to get the sleeves pushed up enough for his fingers to reach the zipper. Shiro laughed and unzipped it for him, then dug out the bags of snacks he'd stashed in the flyer's hold. Once Keith shrugged out of the jacket, Shiro slung it over the flyer and lead the way to the back of the hangar.

"Is it okay to leave it?" Keith asked, craning his neck to look back.

"Who's going to steal it? It's got my name all over it," Shiro said.

The pilots in his flight waited in the common room. Three cradled steaming cups of coffee, while the fourth—a lanky woman with dark hair pulled back in a severe bun—scarfed down the last of the snacks.

Shiro pointed to each in turn. "That's Demo, Toma, Evil, and Wizard with the snacks. Everyone, this is Keith."

"Aha!" Wizard pointed her bag of chips at Keith. "You're the kid who got 400-something!"

Keith nearly jumped out of his skin, but he relaxed when the pilots—and the gathering support crews—didn't crowd him. Demo showed Keith the coffee maker, intoning seriously about Shiro's addiction to that last cup before step; Toma and Evil chattered about their own first flight tests when they'd been at Garrison. Shiro left Keith in their hands and went to find the captain.

An hour later, Shiro was done with the pre-briefing meeting and handing out the mission materials to his flight. Keith was nowhere to be seen.

"He was fading." Demo pretended to let his eyes flutter shut. "He fought it, but lost the battle."

"We put him up in the captain's office," Toma said. "Nice sofa, blanket, and he was out before we turned off the lights."

Keith reappeared, yawning but more awake, as Shiro finished with the last flight suit safety check.

"The step comes next," Evil told the kid. "Go up those stairs, and you can sit with ground control.  Oh, here comes the crew chief."

Shiro clapped Keith on the shoulder and sent him along, while shaking his head at the flight's hollering. The crew chief had the worst record for relationships; sounded like her most recent adventure in love had lasted barely a weekend.

An hour later, final briefing done, Shiro walked with his flight across the open deck to inspect their parked jets. Across the vast open space, the ground control offices cast yellow light across the hangar's roof. Keith stood at the window with the crew chief. Shiro considered waving, doubted Keith would see, and waved anyway.

"You really think he's got what it takes to pilot?" Toma asked. "Seems awful quiet, to me."

"Not all pilots talk as much as Demo."

Demo halted halfway up the ladder into his cockpit to yell, "I heard that!"

The sun's first rays were limning the row of jets in gold, and Shiro ran the final flight checks. Control confirmed take-off. The sky had lightened to purple streaked with red. Shiro set aside all distractions, and took to the skies.

 

 

 

Keith followed the crew chief into a small side room. One entire wall was a window, looking out across the runway. Two large monitors sat on a desk, with a headset. Keith sat down, and the chief showed him how to adjust the headset.

"Now, you haven't got the clearance for standing in control, but here you'll be able to see what you're really here for." She grinned, showing a bit too much teeth. "Okay, headset is set to the frequency so you'll hear all the chatter, at least until Raptor shuts 'em all down. This screen is the cockpit view. The other screen will show the heads-up display, everything the pilot's seeing. Take a seat."

Keith dutifully sat, angling himself to see the long runway. Off in the distance, the flight had finished their checks and were climbing in. Shiro's jet was in the lead, and it began the slow roll away from the hangar. The other four jets followed in close formation.

"They're doing an elephant walk," the chief said. "Like one elephant's trunk holds the tail of the one ahead of it, y'know? Questions?"

"Um." Keith took a breath. "Can I see Shiro's screens, instead?"

The chief grinned. "You are."

"But the display says Raptor."

"That's his call-sign. You don't think his flight's going to let him get away with using the same nickname he's been using for years?"

Keith considered that. "Why Raptor?"

"There's a story behind every call sign." The chief checked her watch. "I know originally his sign was Ronin, but I don't know the specifics behind the change. You'll need to ask him. Or ask Demo, he tells the best stories."

Keith was left alone with the headset, listening for Shiro's voice as he called out the final checks. The cockpit camera showed a little of the back of Shiro's head, catching the movement of his abbreviated salute to the ground crew.

"They only salute in hopes making you happy will keep you from buzzing them," Demo said.

"Shut up, motormouth," Wizard replied.

More chatter, then the frequency fell silent with the final departure calls. Keith went to the window, hands against the glass. The murky pre-dawn light gave an eerie glow to the jets' wingtip lights. And then the first jet came roaring down the long runway, rearing nose-up, then thrusting upwards. Keith craned his neck to watch it go, and the next four jets each took off behind Shiro in rapid succession.

Why Raptor? The thought murmured in the back of Keith's head as he watched Shiro's view through the cockpit camera. A single rudder roll and the jet leveled out, screaming far above the dawn desert at sixty thousand feet. A few scattered clouds obscured patches of the earth, and far in the distance the earth curved away.

Keith had to remind himself to breathe. No wonder Shiro loved flying so much. It was phenomenal, and Keith wasn't even there, himself.

"Raptor to ground," Shiro called. "Halo flight arriving for backup."

"Roger that," an unfamiliar woman announced. "Targets identified, if you could clear 'em out."

Red dots lit up on the heads-up display.

"Roger that," Shiro replied. With a few quick words, he split up the flight into separate bombing runs. Evil and Toma shot forward, a few hundred feet below Shiro, then peeled away in opposite directions. Shiro kept his altitude steady. "Estimated arrival, thirty seconds."

"Vipers coming in, get ready," the woman said. "Brace!"

With a speed that left Keith breathless, Shiro abruptly broke right and dove, nearly straight down. He cut through the clouds and continued dropping. His heads-up speed increased, gauges climbing towards red. In the cockpit, Shiro had the sticks almost to the dash. His thumb flicked, pressed, and three of the red dots blipped yellow and faded. Shiro rolled away, coming around and spiraling upwards again.

"Direct hits," the woman reported. "Three targets down."

"Roger that," Shiro said. "Toma, what's the hold up?"

"Missed on first pass," Toma reported. "Going again."

The rest of the pilots reported in. They were using radar to 'drop' bombs on specific targets set up by the ground crew. More people talking on the frequency, growing to a chaotic level. Calls for backup, questions about the next targets.

Shiro's voice rode over all of it. "Everyone who is not me, my flight, a squad leader or ground control, shut _up_ or get off this freq."

Sudden silence.

"That's better. Squad leader, your position."

"We're moving to thirty-five-ten-fifty-three at one-one-five, mark five," the woman reported. Something echoed across the frequency, like gunshots. "Move, move! Raptor, we're leaving another round of targets."

"Roger that," Shiro replied. "Wizard, Demo, take the western six. Toma, Evil, eastern six." His cockpit view showed clouds, and Shiro leveled the jet out, then banked sharply to bring it down and around in a sweeping pattern.

The ground flashed by, far below. A few shacks, the lines of dirt roads, and moving objects. Jeeps, some kind of transport, scurrying figures. A practice war game?

"We've got bandits," the ground chief reported. "Coming in from your three, Raptor."

"Five bugs," Evil said.

"Navy boys sleeping late again," Demo drawled. "Thought they'd never get here."

"Cut the chatter," Shito ordered. "You get the targets, I'll deal with them." He rolled the jet into a climb, shooting straight upwards. Clouds obscured the view, then he broke through and swept around back into the clouds, nose level.

Keith inched forward on his seat, hands gripping the desk edge. His heart thundered almost as loud as the white noise of the open frequency.

"Here we go," Wizard crowed. "Someone pass me the popcorn."

Shiro's heads-up blipped, the five bandits moving in a tight formation. Shiro stayed far above them, moving fast at an angle that would bring him crossing overhead. He seemed to be waiting, unmoving, and his attack came with a ferocity that had Keith yelping out loud.

Shiro sent the jet into a hard roll and severe dive. His thumb clicked the stick-controls as he passed overhead, cutting down into the formation. One bandit blipped out, then a second. The third rolled away in a yo-yo, and the last two split.

"Wizard, Toma, bandits coming your way." Shiro's tone remained calm, as though it was all no more exciting than Keith's algebra homework.

"Roger that," the two pilots replied.

The third bandit dropped out of sight, but Shiro didn't look around, didn't spin the jet checking. If Keith's guess was right, the bandit should be coming up on Shiro's six from beneath. What Keith didn't expect was for Shiro to drive upwards in another vertical climb. The heads-up showed the bandit following, but at a lesser angle. Shiro's speed continued to drop, until Keith had to put a hand over his mouth to keep from yelling.

Just as the heads-up started pinging alerts about the drop in speed, Shiro yanked the sticks, rolling the jet into a steep nose-dive. He burst through the clouds as the bandit overshot. Shiro's thumb rested on the stick controls, but he didn't fire. He gradually angled the jet out of its nose-dive, and the bandit bounced in the view, leveled out, and Shiro fired. The heads-up marking on the bandit went from red, to green, then gray, and the bandit dove into a split-S, disengaging.

Maybe twenty minutes had passed. The flight disengaged, withdrew, and came around again. It had to be some kind of war games practice, because the second time, Shiro's flight intercepted the navy jets' defense.

Shiro's orders came rapid and clipped, and the five broke apart into defensive and offensive maneuvers. Keith tried to track the others' attacks from what he could see from Shiro's cockpit camera, but Shiro seemed to know intuitively where each was. Shiro himself engaged with phenomenal speed only to disengage just as rapidly, with simple maneuvers Keith recognized from the jet fighters' group.

It took three attacks before Keith realized what Shiro was doing. It wasn't only the jet's immense speed. It was also that it could go _slower_ than the bandits, as well as vertical to a degree they couldn't match. Shiro had figured out—or already knew—what the navy bandits were capable of, and he repeatedly found ways to use that against them. One by one, he shot each down, while his flight attacked the opponent's' ground-to-air defenses.

By the time the crew chief gave the call to return to base, Keith felt like he'd run ten miles. He could barely breathe, and his heart wouldn't stop hammering. He managed to pry his fingers off the desk enough to turn and watch the jets land, one by one.

The chief poked her head into the room, letting Keith know the displays would be shut down, and the flight would attend a post-mission briefing. It'd be about two hours.

On impulse, Keith motioned to the displays. "Can I see a map of the area?"

"It's restricted air space, kid. Satellites don't record it."

"Oh, not that area. Just… general. Around here." When Shiro's flight had first taken off, there'd been a distant _boom,_ followed by four more. The sounds had echoed in Keith's head, returning to haunt him when the frequency went silent as the flight landed. He knew that sound, from far back in his childhood. He'd always thought it a crack of thunder, but perhaps now he knew better.

Left to himself again, Keith patiently worked his way back and forth across the map. There was the road to the airbase, and there was the highway. He studied the rock formations closely, until he found several he knew he'd seen through Shiro's cockpit camera. When he angled the view around from a different direction, he knew their shape.

From there, he swept the map left and right, zoomed in as much as he could, trying to keep to a northwestern path. He skirted the grayed-out section of restricted space, and nearly missed the tiny dot, nestled into a blank landscape of endless tawny desert, broken only by a rusted tin roof and a single scrawny tree.

His father's house.

Keith absently wiped his eyes and zoomed out, looking for dirt ruts, edged with an old farm fence. There wasn't much left of either, but he could see bare tracks. He followed them, heart pounding again when the tracks led through rock outcroppings. From there, a long straightaway, then the road became more of a worn rock-track up and through the foothills. Beyond that, the highway that passed the airbase.

He'd found the way home.  

He scrolled back, studying the landmarks to know where to turn, where the rough road lay, and the dirt ruts beyond. Now he knew where to go. The only question that remained was how he'd get there.

A step in the hallway was enough warning to flick the map sideways, letting it scroll until it came to stop on some tiny desert town. Keith shut off the monitors as Shiro pushed the door open.

"Still awake?" Shiro leaned a shoulder against the doorway. He'd dressed back in his civilian riding gear, and he looked tired but pleased. "How'd it look?"

Keith tensed, unsure, then his mind caught up. Shiro meant the flight, not the house. "Was that supposed to happen? Those other jets showing up?"

"We were told there was a chance." Shiro's grin was crooked. "We _might've_ been hoping a slight delay on our part would mean they'd show up at the same time. Those guys aren't usually up at the crack of dawn."

"Oh." Keith stood, his body protesting after almost four hours in an uncomfortable chair. He kicked one leg, then the other, shaking out the stiffness, and followed Shiro through the hallways and back down into the massive hangar. "The chief said your call-sign used to be Ronin."

Shiro's mouth twisted, slightly. "A call-sign isn't something you get to pick. It's something your first flight picks for you."

"What's wrong with Ronin?"

"It's a mercenary. Someone who fights for money." Shiro halted at the door to the main room, where Wizard and Demo were talking about the navy jets over final cups of coffee. "We're heading out. See you on wednesday."

"Gonna bring the kid with you again?" Demo grinned down at Keith. "Or did you see enough and decide you want to be a navy pilot, instead?"

"Tell us now and we'll make sure yours is a painless death," Wizard added.

"Uh." Keith considered and discarded several responses. Demo's grin grew forced, and Wizard's brows came down, and Keith belatedly remembered he had to answer. "No. I want to fly what Shiro flies."

"Good answer, kid." Wizard clapped him on the shoulder, more of a glancing blow than Shiro's comforting style. Keith barely hid the flinch.

"What he flies, or _how_ he flies?" Demo shook his head. "You're picking some mighty big britches to fill."

Not really, but he couldn't bring himself to say that. Better to evade, or at least try. "Why is Shiro's call-sign Raptor?"

Wizard choked, then laughed. "Go on, Demo. Do tell."

Shiro just crossed his arms, brows raised slightly. Keith wasn't sure what that meant. Before he could take it back, Demo made a sound almost like a growl.

"Did you see the shit he pulls out there?" Demo stabbed a finger in Shiro's direction. "Sits way up high, letting clouds confuse you, then comes screaming down at you from fucking nowhere so fast you're still shitting your pants about what the fuck will happen if you don't move fast enough, but by the time you react, it's too late, you're dead. And then he goes right back to being all quiet, way up there. Used to see hawks doing that back home. Up on a pole perfectly still, or coasting on the updrafts way up high. Then suddenly they dive, so fast some poor pigeon doesn't even know what hit it. Plucked right out of the air, like _that_." Demo snapped his fingers. "Another goner."

"What Demo isn't telling you," Wizard said, "is that this is exactly what Shiro did to him, at Shiro's first wargames simulation."

"He was a kid!" Demo burst out. "Some Garrison punk they threw in for shits and giggles. Yeah, so I wasn't expecting him to actually get a _hit_."

"Seventeen times," Wizard said.

"He got lucky," Demo insisted.

"Seventeen times."

"Really lucky!"

"Okay, okay," Shiro said, catching Keith by the shoulder. "I need to get Keith back to Garrison. He's got homework, and I've got tests to grade."

Keith didn't protest the subtle pull of Shiro's hand, but he didn't bother hiding his smile, either. Demo's protests faded as Shiro shut the doors behind him.

"None of them fly like you do," Keith told Shiro, as he climbed onto the flyer and wrapped his arms around Shiro's waist.

"Everyone has their own style." Shiro pulled on his gloves, with movements Keith could only call _intentional_. "I was only an adequate pilot until I found what worked for me."

"To be like a hawk?"

"No, to wait." Shiro glanced over his shoulder with a smile. "The right moment would come in its own time. I just needed to be ready, and the shot would be mine. I guess I'd say... I had to figure out that patience yields focus."

Keith rubbed his chin against Shiro's shoulder, an abbreviated nod. Shiro laughed softly, patted Keith's hands, and started up the flyer to take them home.

 

 

 

 

In case you missed it, [ghostiekuns on tumblr did the most amazing artwork for ch10](http://ghostiekins.tumblr.com/post/165939968753/please-read-slip-the-surly-bonds-by-sol1056-it-def) and it's beautiful and perfect, go, see!


	15. Chapter 15

Shiro arrived at the simulator conference room, still a little bleary from Saturday's early flight followed by a late night of grading. He must've missed an email. Not only were Montgomery and Iverson present, so were Föcker, Mikhailova, LaSalle, Dunkirk, Mbabazi, and several other instructors.

There were also maybe twenty civilian suits, conferring in serious undertones, tablets under their arms. The conference table had been removed, replaced by rows of chairs. Ten seats, seven deep. The last two rows were mostly taken by the suits.

Shiro sidled up next to Mbabazi, catching her mid-yawn. "What's going on?"

"Some kind of tests on the simulators," she said. "Emily sent out an email blast maybe an hour ago."

The cadets filed in, and their everyday uniforms—rather than flight suits—was yet another clue something was up. The core jet fighters' group was present, but so were about forty other students. Most were cargo pilots, and all were students Shiro had identified as having jet pilot potential. Keith arrived with Jae-Hee and Ana, and none carried the usual snacks. They also weren't the only second-years.

Iverson called the room to attention, and the students took their seats. The instructors lined the walls, while the suits settled in at the back rows, some with laptops and tablets out.

"Alright, we're doing something a little different this week," Iverson announced. "Our civilian partners have upgraded the simulation systems, and come up with new flight programs. You lot will be the test pilots for those programs."

The effect was electric. Most of the cadets sat up straighter; a few tried to look over their shoulders at the rows of suits. Shiro hid the frown. Keith had greeted him with the usual sideways nod, but at Iverson's words, Keith had looked past Shiro to someone else along the row. Whatever he'd seen had him shrinking down in his seat and closing off.

"I'm going to turn this over to the head engineer, Dr. Baxter, to explain the tests." Iverson stepped back, letting an older woman step forward.

Medium-height with a smattering of freckles across office-pale skin, Dr Baxter was soft and round despite the stern cut of her tailored suit. She tapped the screen behind her, and a list appeared. The names were hardly self-explanatory, bland titles like _course_s2v17_ and _course_g1v23_.

"Good morning," Dr Baxter said, nodding when several of the cadets responded in kind. "For these sixteen programs, we identified four different aircraft. We've now included simulations for vipers, ospreys, and guardians, along with the scorpions you're used to."

Interesting. The scorpion model was a fighter meant for escort duties, and not as maneuverable as a viper, which was classed as an all-weather fighter/attack jet. The osprey was a bomber model, meant for long-range low-altitude flight behind enemy lines, while the guardian was a short-range missile-armed interceptor, designed to take down bombers. The cadets with cargo training would likely take to the ospreys best; the guardian would probably be difficult for all of them, as its tactics were significantly different what they'd learned so far.

"Each program is designed to last twenty minutes, broken into two sections," Dr Baxter continued. "Swipe your badge across the hatch to open it, so we can make sure the system doesn't duplicate your options. Once inside, you'll get a choice between two models. Make your selection, and you'll have one minute to review the program's mission and objective."

One of the cargo pilots raised his hand. "What if we complete the objective before the ten minutes is up?"

"Then the section is over, and it's the next pilot's turn. If the same model is a choice in your second or third test, you'll be given the second half. If anyone can make good on your mistakes, it won't be you." Dr Baxter allowed a brief smile. "All flight logs will posted in the conference room screens for review."

Jae-Hee raised his hand. "So it's okay if we discuss our results?"

"You are welcome to," Dr Baxter said. "In fact, we have arranged breaks between the tests so you can do that, in hopes you'll advise others of what you've learned. That will also provide more insightful results for us."

When no one else had questions, Iverson stepped forward again. "Each flight test will have instructors and civilian engineers observing. Commander LaSalle will be tracking who goes when, so wait for her to call your name. Questions?" Iverson looked over the room. "We expect the full run to take about four hours."

Several of the cadets groaned, muffling the sound behind their hands.

"No complaints," Iverson barked. "If you're not up for doing thirty solo minutes in the simulator, now's the time to speak up that you want out of the piloting program." No one moved. Iverson grunted in approval. "Commander LaSalle, it's all yours."

LaSalle read twelve names from her tablet. A cadet for each simulator, with the next-in-line. Shiro was assigned to Talon Three with Mikhailova, along with two suited engineers—an angular-faced woman and a pot-bellied man—who spoke in jargon almost as dense as pilot lingo. Shiro caught maybe a third, guessed at half, and ignored the rest. He adjusted his headset, and hoped the engineers remembered there was a mute button. No pilot needed that distraction.

The first test pilot for Talon Three was a fourth-year named Mike, who'd begun as a cargo pilot, but transferred in his second year to engineering. Next in line was Jae-Hee, who leaned against the railing as he waited. Mike gave Shiro a wide-eyed look.

"Sir," Mike said. "I don't know how to fly a jet."

"If you get a chance for an osprey, take it," Shiro said, hoping that wasn't violating some rule of the testing program. "Otherwise, avoid selecting a guardian." When Mike didn't move, Shiro pointed to the simulator. "Go on, cadet. You've got more skills than you realize."

Wires ran from the main console—where Iverson and Montgomery stood, with Dr Baxter—to separate screens along the three walkways. It was the only way to allow that many people to crowd the simulators; with almost thirty people observing, the cavernous space quickly became as noisy as a hallway between classes.

The large screen bolted to the railing outside each simulator showed a setup much like the kind used at the airbase for visiting cadets. The pilot's view commanded much of the screen, with the heads-up displays below. The one unusual note was a secondary window with white text scrolling rapidly up a black background.

"Our debugging output," the male engineer explained. "We expect an unskilled pilot to—"

Shiro put up a hand. "Do _not_ finish that sentence. These cadets are willing to take your tests seriously. You grant them the same respect."  

The woman elbowed the man, who coughed, then nodded. Both made a show of muting their headsets.

"Mike, the selection's on your screen. Pick one, and let's get started."

"Yes, sir. Uhm." After a moment, Mike took the osprey, and a simple mission objective appeared on-screen. A bombing run at twilight; the sub-program required staying below the radar threshold until reaching a designated rendezvous behind enemy lines.

Nine minutes later, Mike stumbled from the simulation pod with a minute to spare. Shiro sent Mike to check in with LaSalle and send the next in line, while Jae-Hee got in the simulator and was out four minutes later. He'd chosen a viper, and crashed out; his expression was a thundercloud. The third cadet swiped her badge and climbed in.

Directly behind Talon Three's group, on the walkway, was Talon Two's. Föcker and Dunkirk were the instructor-observers. Their pair of engineers seemed to be the same as the rest, uninterested in actually speaking to pilots, too busy reviewing their programs' readouts and whispering to each other.

Thirty minutes in, and Keith appeared, taking his place in line for Talon Two. Shiro glanced over at the sounds of engineering disapproval. Another cadet had crashed out of the guardian simulation, and apparently none had managed to finish a single section for that model.

Shiro wasn't surprised. It wasn't a bad thing to expose the students, but it was rather ambitious to expect any of them to pick it up completely cold. Most of the cadets weren't crashing the viper simulations; Shiro checked his tablet for the tallies. From the logs, it looked like the cadets were flying the vipers like scorpions, unaware of what a viper could do. They weren't crashing, but neither were they completing the objectives within the allotted time.

Shiro looked over when Keith stepped up to take his turn in Talon Two. Dunkirk said something to Keith, who dropped his gaze, not even looking at Föcker when the major reminded him of the routine. Shiro frowned. Something was going on with Keith, but there was no time to pull the kid aside and ask. On the other hand, maybe Montgomery was right, and Shiro needed to stop coddling Keith. It didn't feel right, though. Shiro had yet to see Keith put himself out front. Temperamentally, Keith just seemed happier chasing rather than leading.

Shiro stepped back, putting himself in the middle of the walkway where he could keep an eye on Talon Three, while also seeing Keith's progress on Talon Two. The hatch was closed, but no program had been selected.

Föcker leaned against the railing, a single finger tapping. "Kogane," he said into his headset, "you need to pick a program."

The two options randomly selected were viper and scorpion. Shiro thought once, twice, and discarded worry about Iverson's response, surreptitiously adjusting his headset to Talon Two's frequency. _Choose viper_ , he wanted to say.

"What's he doing?" Föcker asked one of the engineers, who tapped a button to open a window into the simulator. Shiro edged closer to see: Keith had his hand over the screen, a finger poised above the viper selection. Before Föcker could re-open the line, Keith pressed down on the choice for scorpion.

Föcker looked as disappointed as Shiro felt; for all that Föcker played the disinterested sort, he had to be just as curious to find out what Keith could do. Maybe Keith had chosen to play it conservatively for his first test.

A minute into the simulation, and it was clear Keith hadn't just chosen conservatively. He was flying cautiously, too. Each move took him twice as long, and easily four times his record. He delayed between maneuvers, and edged dangerously close to stalling out at least twice. The engineers took notes, while Dunkirk smiled, as if Keith's performance was commendable. Maybe it would be, for anyone else, but not given what Keith had already shown he could do.

Only Föcker stared, arms crossed, head down in a way that had Shiro instinctively backing up.  

Ten minutes later the simulation was over. Keith hadn't crashed, but neither had he completed the objectives. The young man who stepped out of the simulator was a mere shadow of the pilot Föcker had called fireball. Keith paused, mouth open as if to speak, but he didn't look up. He simply closed his mouth and walked away.

Föcker watched him go, then turned to stare at Shiro, who could only shrug.

Shiro re-focused his attention on the Talon Three test pilot, but his usual patience was nowhere to be found. Had he made a mistake by inviting Keith to meet his flight? He'd hoped to inspire Keith; if Keith had no interest in space flight, then his skill would still be invaluable in jet fighters. Shiro couldn't deny that he'd rather like the idea of Keith as his co-pilot in long-range missions like the kind Dr Holt had in mind. He had to respect Keith's own ambition, though. If space wasn't where Keith's interests lay, Shiro would do whatever he could to make sure Keith ended up somewhere he was valued.

Except now Keith seemed to have no interest in even that much. It made no sense.

An hour passed, with a few crashes and two early completions bringing the rotation around to the beginning. Mike returned, choosing a scorpion for his second test. Jae-Hee's second test, he had a choice of a guardian or a osprey; to Shiro's astonishment, chose guardian and proceeded to obliterate the test. He finished with twenty seconds to spare.

And a minute or two later, Keith got in line for his second test. Again, that hesitation, although Shiro was a little perturbed that Föcker simply stared down his nose at Keith. Only Dunkirk seemed to offer any encouragement, but if anything, Keith just looked more dejected.

Shiro didn't hesitate, this time. He flipped his headset's frequency over to Talon Two. Something was going on, and he couldn't just stand by while Keith went down.    

For the second test, Keith's choices were a viper or an osprey. Again, he was slow to choose, and it took Föcker reminding him before Keith seemed to come to attention and select osprey.

Why? A slow, steady bomber was more suited to a cargo pilot's style. Keith handled it well enough, finishing out the ten minutes without any major mishaps. Again, such cautious, careful flying. Was he unnerved by the pressure, then? It could be, but that didn't bode well for his longevity as a pilot, then. Nerves of steel were a non-negotiable aspect of the job.

Shiro wanted to catch Keith by the shoulder. Mikhailova elbowed him and he pulled back from the instinct. Right. Focus.

Behind him, Föcker rounded on the two engineers, loud enough to be heard over the constant burble of conversation at the six Talon stations.

"Next test that kid takes, you make it so his only choice is viper," Föcker said.

"Hold on, Major," Dunkirk said. "They have tests to run—"

"I don't care," Föcker snarled. "I want that kid running the viper test, and you engineers will make it happen." He glared down at the engineers. "Do it, or I'll throw you out and get a comms programmer to handle it."

"These are in beta, and we have test plans," one of the engineers replied. Föcker crossed his arms, towering over the man. The engineer shrank back. "Uh, yeah, uh, we'll see what we can do."

A little over an hour later, it was Keith's turn in the rotation again. He waited at the railing, head down, barely responding as Boxer—next in line for Talon Three—tried to talk to him. Eventually Boxer gave up with a sigh.   

When Talon Two was empty again, Keith stepped forward, then stopped before the hatch. He put out his hand, but didn't touch the simulator, and slowly his hand dropped. Shiro changed frequency to signal Montgomery and Iverson at the main control board.

"Something's going on," Shiro said. "We need one of you over here at Talon Two-Three, for additional observation." He switched to Talon Two's frequency, and motioned to Mikhailova. She signaled her agreement, attention on the Talon Three pilot's progress.

Föcker kept his distance from Keith; his stiff shoulders made it clear to anyone who knew him just how much he was holding his temper in check. "Kogane, your head hasn't been in the game all day. Get in there and get in gear."

"I—" Keith broke off, and shook his head, once. He glanced up, but not at Focker. He looked beyond him, to Shiro, and for only the second time all day made eye contact.

Shiro had no time to react, nor even compose his expression; Keith had already averted his gaze, looking as close to tears as Shiro had ever seen. More than that. He looked _frightened_. Shiro held his crossed arms with an iron grip, because otherwise he was going to punch someone. He just had no idea who.

Dunkirk stepped forward. "Keith, there's no shame in recognizing one's limits. If you're not cut out to be a pilot, it's—"

"Shut up, Dunkirk!" Föcker yelled loud enough to bring the entire room to abrupt silence. "You're not a fucking pilot, you don't have the first clue what it's like, and you don't belong here. _Get off my deck!_ "  

"Major—" Dunkirk's mouth dropped open, then his head swiveled to Iverson, who'd joined the group. "Commander."

"You heard the major," Iverson said. "I'll be taking over as second observer. Dismissed."

Dunkirk gave Keith one last look, saluted Iverson sharply, and left. Föcker's gaze remained on Keith, who stared at his feet.

"Last chance," Föcker said, quieter. The room's hubbub returned to normal, when it was clear Föcker wouldn't provide more fireworks. "You get in there and show them what you can do, or you walk away now and you don't look back."

Keith's shoulders hunched; his fists clenched at his side. Then he took a deep breath, swept his badge across the hatch, and climbed into the simulator. The hatch closed behind him.

As soon as Keith had on the headset and put his hands on the sticks, the readouts registered. Elevated heart rate, rapid breathing. In any other pilot, those were the signs of tremendous stress, possibly a panic attack. The screen showed one choice: viper.

Keith pressed the button.

The simulation started up, and Keith's jet sluggishly moved into its first maneuver. Shiro studied the heads-up display, at a complete loss. Keith's speed was barely enough to keep the jet from going into a spin, and it seemed to take forever for him to complete the first maneuver. He followed that with a long glide. The jet lost altitude in a gradual roll that looked like the beginnings of the slowest split-S disengagement ever.

Roy growled something under his breath and smashed the call button down with his thumb. "What the _fuck_ are you doing in there, fireball? Learning to knit?"

Keith's voice sounded very small, and too far away. "No…"

"You're fucking with us, is what you're doing, and I've had it up to here!" Föcker's legendary nonchalance was gone, replaced with a fury that few ever saw except on the battlefield. "Are you _mocking_ me, boy?"

"What?" Keith's tone was naked surprise. Whatever he intended, it hadn't been for Föcker.

"You broke every _goddamned_ one of my records like it was a fucking walk in the goddamned fucking _park_ , and that's it? You stop trying? Don't you fucking _mock_ me!"

"I'm not—" Keith cut off, but the shift in his readouts showed his intention. He'd let the jet fall into a gentle dive. The split-S had become a long, slow banked angle towards the earth, forty thousand feet below.

Föcker reared back, one hand coming up to toss off his headset. Shiro lunged forward, knowing the next step would be Föcker hauling Keith out of the simulator by his collar.

"Roy, _no_!" Shiro caught Föcker by the elbow. "Keith, listen to me. Level out, Keith. Level out!"

The only reply was a sound so soft, Shiro almost thought he'd imagined it. A muffled sob, and half of Keith's readouts disappeared. He'd taken one hand off his side-sticks.

Thirty thousand feet. The simulation jet was gaining speed as it lost altitude.

"Keith." One quick breath, and Shiro set aside every distraction to see Keith in his mind. _Focus._ "I know you don't believe in yourself, but I do. I _know_ you can do this."

Fifteen thousand feet. The simulation shuddered as the viper's bank increased by five degrees. Ten more and even the best pilots would lose control.

"Keith, level out—" Shiro struggled to keep from yelling in panic. It was one thing to crash as part of learning. A willful crash was another matter, one Iverson wouldn't overlook. " _Listen_ to me. There'll always be someone telling you to quit, that it's too hard, that you can't do it. But not me. _Never_ me."

Three thousand feet. Fifty-two degrees.

Shiro slammed his fist down on the railing. "Don't give up on me, Keith, 'cause I'm _not giving up on you!_ "

A thousand feet. Fifty-five degrees.

"Level _out_ , Keith!" Shiro dropped all pretense of calm. _"LEVEL OUT, NOW!_ "

The readouts blipped. Keith's second hand was back on the controls. The jet's bank wobbled. For all his innate talent, Keith was still a relatively untrained pilot. But if he at least tried to recover, Iverson would forgive the inevitable crash.   

"Come on, Keith. You can do this."  Shiro stared at the simulation pod, but in his mind's eye, all he saw was Keith.

The simulation pod abruptly spun. Not a flat spin, but an abrupt leveling up of the wings. Shiro leaned back enough to see the heads-up display.  

"At that speed..." Iverson's face was creased in worry, though his headset remained muted. "Come on, kid, come _on_."

The simulation pod jerked hard. Keith had leveled the viper, but now came the dangerous part. At that speed, recovering meant increasing the g-forces, and the stall speed would go up accordingly. Most students thought it crazy that recovering from a spin could result in a stall, but there it was, and Keith was on the precipice.

The simulation pod jerked once, twice, and settled into a smooth, slow climb. From the readouts, there'd been a split-second of flutter. Any other beginner would've pulled back, thinking slower meant more control. Not Keith. He'd slammed the sticks down so hard he'd probably bruised his knuckles on the console.

Eight hundred feet and climbing.   

Shiro braced himself against the railing and took a long, relieved breath. "Alright, cadet. Readout says you've got six minutes to complete the mission. Time for you to show everyone what you can do."

"Shiro," Keith whispered.

"You can do it," Shiro said. The simulator pod's gyros nearly keened from spinning around the pod so fast. "I know you can."

Föcker broke in. "Clock might say six minutes, fireball, but I expect mission complete inside of four."

A split-second pause, then Keith's whisper across the line. Quiet, but with a determined note that hadn't been there before. "Yes, sir."

Shiro muted his headset, not wanting to distract Keith. His legs felt shaky, but he stiffened his spine, watching Talon Two's display. Keith shot upwards, pushing the viper to its limits, twisting through the course, evading the program's bandit opponents. Immelman, pitchback, wingover, skillful evasions.

Engineers from other observation stations drifted closer, poking each other to get a look. The Talon Two engineers pushed back, until Iverson scowled and sent Keith's heads-up display to the massive classroom screen, high up on the wall. As one, the engineers turned, craning their necks as Keith tumbled from one scorching maneuver to the next, his speed hovering at the edge of redline.

One by one, the bandits were taken out, until two remained. The program prompted for an unloaded extension leading into a high yo-yo. Keith went up, not down. Shiro had a feeling where Keith was going, and while Montgomery muttered in annoyance, Shiro couldn't stop the growing grin.

A Herbst to reverse direction—a maneuver that required pushing the very envelope Keith had just recovered from. With the viper's ability to handle severer angles than the bandits' scorpion models, Keith's speed dropped as he gained altitude, until the jet was on the edge of stall. Seen from the ground, it would appear he'd shot up, lost momentum, and begun falling backwards towards earth.

At the last possible second, the viper rolled out of the stall into a nose dive, aiming for the opponents with a high-speed swoop almost identical to Shiro's signature move. A high pass at teeth-gritting g-forces, and Keith took out the last of the opponents.

"Time?" Föcker had regained his usual composure, somewhere between affable and indifferent.

Shiro had to clear his throat. "Three-fifty-two, sir." He couldn't resist adding, "Keith, you've got two-oh-eight left on the clock. Starting section two, now. Make the seconds count." Shiro ignored the engineer's squawk and smashed the button to jump-start the second half of the program.

"Yes, sir!" Keith opened the throttles on full, tearing into the second half of the viper program.

Two minutes later the program shut down, the pod's spinning coming to rest. By Shiro's estimate, if Keith had those four minutes back, he would've completed both sections at double-time. Between Keith's phenomenal sense for everything within—and beyond—his line of sight, and that absolute lack of fear when it came to speed, there could be no doubt among the engineers that Keith had neither cheated nor faked his results. Now, or before.

The hatch opened and Keith stepped out. Sweat dripped down his face and soaked his collar. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and offered Shiro a shy smile, before blinking twice to find himself surrounded by maybe forty silent, astonished, faces.

Rather than let Keith withdraw—or worse, panic again—Shiro stepped forward, and clapped Keith on the shoulders. He bent over to speak into Keith's ear, so low only Keith would hear.

"I know how close you came to giving up," Shiro murmured. "There are going to be times you'll want to, times you'll doubt you can do it. When you think that, remember: if you can't believe in yourself, it's okay. Believe _me_ when I tell you I believe in _you_. Always."   

He backed up, flashing a quick grin at Keith's startled expression, then released Keith to face Föcker.

The major stared down at Keith, expression unreadable. Then he sighed. "Not bad, fireball. Next time, I expect both halves of the mission to be complete, though. If you're going to crush every record I have left, I expect you to live up to them. We clear?"

Keith's reaction was somewhere between a nervous nod and a flinch. "Sir," he whispered.

"Alright, move over, we've got more tests to complete." Iverson waved in the next cadet over for the test, scowling when the audience of engineers would neither move nor stop chattering amongst themselves. "People!" Iverson barked. "Stations. MOVE IT!"

Engineers scattered.

Iverson shoved Shiro in the shoulder. "No celebrating yet," he said. "You've still got forty more test pilots to observe."

Shiro put on his best innocent expression. Iverson rolled his eyes and called for the next Talon Two test pilot. At the end of the walkway, Keith lingered with wide eyes. Shiro gave him a quick nod, and Keith ducked his head before heading off to join the throng of admiring classmates, led by Boxer.

The group swept Keith back into the conference room, probably to wait for the flight logs. If Shiro had read sideways with any accuracy, Föcker's text messages during the last minute of Keith's test was a demand that the engineers remove the opening four minutes. PIlots could learn from each other, but they also needed to see that if they faltered, they would be supported, not exposed.

Still… Keith's panic may have been shut down, but it certainly hadn't been resolved. Something, or someone, had prompted Keith to either doubt himself, or his skills. Or perhaps, to believe he was wrong to have them.

One of the engineers, maybe? Or an instructor? Shiro helped a cadet from the pod, and steadied the pod as the next cadet climbed in. Or had it been embarrassment, a misguided sense that the day's extended flight tests were due entirely to Keith's unbelievable scores? The engineers hadn't believed them, which was part of the reason for the upgrades, the new programs, and the testing. Somehow, someday, Shiro would get Keith to see what a phenomenal natural talent he had, and to hell with engineers or rumors.

That time might be long off, but if Shiro had any say in the matter, that moment would definitely come. In its own time, but it would come. 


	16. Chapter 16

Keith let himself into his dorm room as the sun set outside. He pulled off one boot, then the other. He unbuttoned the jacket, and pulled it over his head. Last were his uniform pants, leaving him in undershirt, boxers, socks.

He hadn't seen Shiro since he'd left the simulation and was swept away by a bunch of fourth- and fifth-years he hardly knew. Boxer had joined the group, then Hernandez. Both had seen Keith's simulation as it happened, and the rest had seen the replay.

He'd expected an hour in the conference room, waiting for everyone to finish up. He hadn't expected it to drag into the late afternoon, carried along with the group up to the common room. And the whole time, waiting for someone to ask about the four-minute delay on the timestamp. So many people asking questions, reliving the flight, yet no one had brought that up. They'd been too busy asking about his speed, that last maneuver, how he knew what a viper could do.

He'd had no idea what to say. He certainly didn't have the words to ask who they were, or how they knew him. It was a blur of faces, and only a small relief that Boxer and Hernandez were happy answering for him. Or maybe they weren't. He couldn't tell.

He'd been so careful. He'd seen other students' logs, tried to remember their times. Tried to fly like them. Be one of them.

He'd screwed it all up.

He hadn't had the guts to walk away. He hadn't had the guts to let the jet crash. He hadn't had the guts to refuse when Shiro had called his name. And now, what would happen?

So many engineers watching. All those instructors. And Shiro, right there.

Keith let his legs give out, slowly crumpling to perch on the edge of his bed. He didn't have the energy to even punch his pillow. He patted it, nudged it into a proper place. Twitched the blankets. Looked around the room.

Somewhere out there, maybe fifteen miles distance, stood the only thing left to him.

Down two floors, one wing over, was the only person who'd ever believed in him.

It could've been a good thing. Keith had wanted it to be a good thing, but he'd had to go and want more. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the choices taunting him. Scorpion or viper. Osprey or viper. And then, simply viper. It was clearly a test.

And he'd failed.

He'd had the chance to show he wouldn't ask for more. Wouldn't demand attention. Wouldn't push his way into places he didn't belong. Wouldn't try to be something he had no right being. Wouldn't want more of Shiro than Keith ever had a right to ask.

He could say it wasn't his fault. Shiro had yelled at him, then Roy. Keith could say he'd simply done as they demanded. It'd be a lie. There was no hiding the truth from himself. He could've refused, but he'd wanted it too much. One time, just one time, to fly what Shiro flew, to grasp some small part of what he admired so much, knowing it wasn't for him but wanting it anyway.

He'd reminded himself over and over to be careful, make a good impression, and still managed to insult someone who so much mattered to Shiro. Föcker even had the right to call Shiro by a name no one else got to use, and Keith wanted to kick himself for daring to dream of having that right, too, someday. He'd been such a fool, thinking he could impress Föcker. It wasn't like he had much of a track record at making anyone happy.

Part of him remained baffled that Shiro hadn't simply ordered Keith out of the simulator in disgust. Part of him still wasn't sure why Föcker would be so angry then turn around and demand more. All of him knew it'd only been a matter of time.  

He should be ready. He didn't want to scramble to dress when they came to ask him questions. His fingers felt numb, but his chest ached in a strange manner. He rubbed his sternum through the thin t-shirt. Could he have a heart attack, at age fourteen?

In ten days, he'd be fifteen. Get a flyer's permit. Ask Shiro how to get a job, to save money for a little hover of his own.

In three years, he'd be eighteen. He'd graduate, join the military. Ask to be in Shiro's command.

In six years, he'd be twenty-one. He'd go to space. At Shiro's side.

So many stupid dreams.

Keith ran his hands through his hair, dug fingers into his scalp. Shiro had gone to college, learned to be a fighter pilot, trained to go into space. Important people wanted him to do well. It wasn't the time for anyone to ask how Keith—a nobody like Keith—could do any of what he'd done. Especially when Keith couldn't even answer those questions.

Such stupid, selfish dreams.

Shiro was the one who mattered. Anyone with sense would know it was true. Keith had been the one who'd pushed too far, demanded too much. Wanted everything he'd never done anything to deserve.

He reached for the stack of blank cards, on his desk. Took one. Turned it over. The card glowed yellow in the sun's dying rays. Four floors down, they were serving dinner in the cafeteria. So much food, enough to always leave him stunned. The study group would be gathering in the library, among all those books he'd never read. So many students, laughing, talking, so easily. Names and faces he'd never learned. He was an imposter among them.

It took three tries to get the pencil to hold still in his fingers. He rubbed his chest again. The ache had become a strange vibration, like a rattling window when a jet flew overhead.

Paper, pencil. He'd make a list, and be ready.

He'd need a good bag, something to carry supplies. He had his long-sleeve shirt, his jeans. He lingered over the thought of taking the riding pants Shiro had given him. Sturdier than his jeans, no holes, warmer in the desert's night. No, he'd taken enough from Shiro already.

He left the list half-finished, shuffling to his closet to pull out the red jacket. He meant to fold it, but instead just held it for a long moment. He wanted it to smell like something to remember, but all he smelled was fabric, a hint of plastic from the protective plates. Maybe a bit of sweat, dirt from the last desert ride with Shiro.

Keith draped the jacket over the back of his chair. He set the boots on the floor next to the chair. He folded the pants, and on top he set the belt with its mechanics' kit, the insulating blanket Commander LaSalle had said would be good to signal for help.

He could feel his mouth twist, not quite a smile. He had no right to expect help. He'd demanded too much, already.

The sun went down, but there was no reason to turn on the desk light. He moved with familiarity borne of always learning a new space, from the very first, checking hiding places, blind corners. The moon was rising by the time he'd set aside everything he'd leave behind, and gathered what he'd take.

He still had no bag. There was a lost-and-found at the exchange, that might have something he could use. Supplies, he could get a little at a time from the cafeteria. Cereal boxes, granola bars, instant oatmeal. Those were small enough to take, and they'd keep. It wouldn't be the first time he'd stolen, but he wouldn't steal from Shiro. Neither clothes, nor future.

The October desert would still be hot during the day, and cold at night, but at least it'd be dry. He'd need to time his departure carefully. Pace himself, as Shiro had instructed him, every morning when they ran. Two miles an hour would be a doable pace. He could leave later and miss the afternoon heat, if he chose a night when the moon rose early. It would light the last of his way.

He woke in the morning to sun streaming through the windows, his list clutched in one hand. He couldn't remember what he'd dreamt.

 

 

 

Shiro knew the signs of Keith thinking hard, probably still processing just how he felt about the previous day's events. They exchanged no words as they ran; Keith's brows were lowered, eyes fixed on some point in the distance.

The gym was quiet in the early morning. Weights clanked, jump ropes slapped the floor, and Shiro's and Keith's feet pounded the track. Enough mornings of running side-by-side, and they'd found a pace that worked for both of them. Shiro settled into the rhythm, content to let Keith think things through.

With the new quarter starting, Shiro had staff meetings after the fighter jet classes. He saw Keith in the self-defense class, then missed him at dinner, but saw him again at the study session. It did seem the kids were mostly leaving Keith alone again, after Sunday's events.

Speaking of which… Shiro checked his watch again, in hopes Iverson would give him warning. At some point, the engineers would realize their calculations had been correct, and it wasn't a fluke in the programs. A viper could do all those maneuvers without flying apart, even if most pilots—including Shiro—would struggle with the high g-forces. Once the engineers determined their program wasn't the cause, their next avenue would be to study the pilot. The only way to really know if Keith had the lucky genetics to withstand constant high g-forces would be to put him in the airbase's pilot-training centrifuge, though Shiro didn't care for anyone putting Keith under a microscope. The simple fact was some people won the genetic lottery for piloting. As far as Shiro could tell, Keith was one of them.

Sometimes it was a trade-off, too. Demo got sick from excessive g-forces, but he had phenomenal spatial ability. Evil had never even gotten car-sick, let alone sea- or air-sick, but if he hadn't had radar-assist, he couldn't have hit the broad side of a barn. Engineers didn't like unknown variables, and humans were a constant source of unknowns. Sometimes it was just the right blend, with the right experience, in the right situation. And if Keith didn't also have unusually well-developed proprioception, averted vision, and visuo-spatial ability, his complete fearlessness was remarkable in its own right. Shiro wasn't sure anyone could make a better pilot if they'd cooked one up in a lab.

On the other hand, Keith's physical blend might be breathtaking, but his emotional blend was still a kid on the brink of puberty. By Tuesday, his extended silence had Shiro suspecting the events on Sunday—or perhaps the reaction of his older classmates—had left Keith reeling. It was certainly unusual to see Keith barely exchanging more than six words with his flight team, both of whom regarded him with uncharacteristically wary expressions.

When the study group ended, Shiro caught Keith by the elbow before he could duck out. "What's bothering you?"

Keith's eyes went wide, then he dropped his chin, looking away.

"Talk to me, Keith." A strange sense of disconnection wriggled in Shiro's gut. It was too soon for any exams, and he'd heard nothing about Keith's team giving Montgomery apoplexy. Had the fighter pilot testing thrown Keith more than usual? So many unknowns. "I'm here to listen, if you need me."   

"No," Keith whispered. The library lights flickered, the fifteen-minute warning for curfew. Keith pulled his bag tighter to his chest, and didn't look up when he said, "I have to go."

It was only later that Shiro stopped to wonder which part, exactly, had Keith been refusing. To Shiro listening, or to needing Shiro? The thought was unsettling. And in a way, it also hurt.

Wednesday he was off to the airbase by mid-afternoon. He returned well after midnight, weary from another complicated mission acting as support and air-to-ground defense for ground troops. The sergeant on duty waved Shiro over as he entered the Garrison's main building.

"There's someone waiting for you," Carl said. "In the hallway."

"Who is it?"

"A student." Carl shrugged. "Had to call Iverson, they talked, Iverson said it was okay. Must be important."

Shiro hefted his flight bag over his shoulder, puzzled. That reaction doubled when he discovered it was Janvi, slumped over and asleep, awkwardly curled on the hallway's bucket chairs. The hall was half-lit, empty, and his footsteps echoed. Shiro took a seat on the chairs opposite and let his bag drop to the floor.

"Janvi? Hey, wake up."

"Hunh?" She sat up with a start, blinking at him. She wore an oversized sweatshirt and loose pants; with her hair out of its usual braid, for once she looked her fifteen years. "I fell asleep?" She rubbed her eyes. "What time is it?"

"Almost two."

"I thought you'd be back sooner."

Shiro shrugged.

"I didn't want to wait." Janvi finger-combed her hair, pulling it down across her chest. The thick silken rope almost reached her lap. "Something's wrong with Keith, but he won't tell me or Luiz what's going on."

At least it hadn't only been him. Shiro bent forward, elbows on his knees. "What happened?"

"Nothing." Janvi sighed. "That's the problem. It's like a switch got flipped. We had a training run today in the simulator, and we'd planned out what we'd do to get Montgomery. But Keith didn't do any of it. We asked him afterwards and it was like he was ignoring us, even when we were right in front of him."

"What did he do? In the simulator."

"Luiz thought maybe Keith hadn't gotten enough sleep. But I felt like… he didn't want to be there. With us. Like he was bored with it." Janvi stared down at her hands. "I know Luiz and me are just average, but has he… do you know if he's decided he doesn't want to be our flight pilot, anymore? Are we not good enough?"

"I doubt it." Shiro gave her a smile. "I don't think you realize how much Keith holds both of you in awe."

Janvi snorted, but a blush suffused her dark cheeks.

"I know he has something on his mind," Shiro said. "He hasn't talked to me about it yet, though."

"If he's not talking to _you_ , there's no way he'd talk to us." Janvi deflated. "I thought maybe he was still worried about classes. Remember when he went to get his name changed? That night he seemed kind of down, not excited. He said he'd been thinking about how each quarter would get harder and harder."

"It _is_ true every quarter builds on what you learned in the last."

"Sure, but really, classes keep up with us, not the other way around. We know more than we did before, so it's going to take more to keep us challenged."

Shiro had to smile. He'd never thought of it that way, but he liked that perspective. He picked up his flight bag and stood. "I'll walk you to your floor so the guards don't give you trouble."

"Oh. Thanks." She was quiet for a bit, then, tentatively: "Did you mean Keith is impressed by us, or that he likes us?"

"Both. You can't tell?"

She shook her head. "I don't think he trusts us, and I don't know why not."

"It takes longer, for some people. Give him time." Shiro hit the button for the elevator, and decided it was time to switch topics. He wasn't comfortable speaking for Keith; it wasn't something he felt he'd truly earned the right to do, yet. Although, if he ever did, he wasn't sure he'd speak then, either. Some confidences would always be too fragile to violate. "How are you doing? You're a long way from family. It must be a tough adjustment for you, too."

"Me?" Janvi squeaked, then she coughed, recovering. "Uh. It was hard, at first. I was really homesick, but now I sometimes visit Em—I mean, Ms Bandaranaike—and that helps. She's from my hometown. And my mom's been sending me care packages, too."

"Holding up in classes alright?"

"Mostly." She shrugged. "I feel like I'm studying so much I even dream I'm still studying."

He laughed. The doors slid open to the elevator, and he motioned her inside. "I've seen some big improvements from you in self-defense. You're doing well."

"Oh, that wasn't really me." Her cheeks pinked again. "I mean, Keith helped me with my punches, and showed Luiz and me some stretches for warming up, too. The hardest part is I keep closing my eyes when I see a fist coming at me."

"It's not easy to unlearn our instincts."

"I guess." The elevator dinged for her floor. She sighed. "Does it ever get easier? When you grow up, I mean."

"I haven't been grown up long enough to say." Shiro signaled to the guard, and the guard waved his permission before continuing his rounds. "It's a lot like classes. Life doesn't get harder. You get smarter, and life changes to throw you a new challenge."

"I'm not sure if that makes me feel better." Janvi smiled. "Good night."

Shiro didn't lose the smile until the elevator doors closed. Whatever was eating at Keith had to be significant if his flight team was feeling the effects. Shiro had become accustomed to being the first—and sometimes only—person who noticed. But he'd let his attention drop, too wrapped up in the minutiae of a new quarter.

Thursday morning, it was clear Keith had come to some kind of decision, and Shiro relaxed, knowing it'd just be a little longer before Keith would be ready to talk. Surprisingly, Keith asked him about lunch, and Shiro immediately accepted. He could grade those papers during the study group.

Keith had little to say during lunch, though his expression was clear, his tone soft. Mostly he wanted to know about Shiro's flight. It would've been easier to talk about homework, or some trivia about flying, but Shiro dredged up crazier stories about his team and retold those. It wasn't the same as Demo's delivery, but Keith seemed to enjoy hearing.

When lunch ended, Keith lingered, looking at Shiro as if memorizing his face, before giving a half-smile and heading to class. Shiro was halfway to the fighter jet class before he realized he wore a wry smile, too. He'd probably never have Keith completely figured out.

Thursday night's study class, Keith had a question every time Shiro made the rounds among the seven quiet trios. Even things he should've known, he still asked, yet sometimes his voice was almost too soft to hear. He'd never been that loud, but neither did he whisper. Shiro had to lean in, listening closely, but he treated it without comment. Sometimes it was better to let things play out, after all. He could be patient.

Friday was the same, and when self-defense classes ended, Shiro made sure to be walking out at the same time as Keith. He slowed his pace, noting that Keith immediately did the same.

"You've been awfully quiet," Shiro said. "Everything's okay, now?"

Keith's gaze was on the floor. He raised his chin to look Shiro in the eyes. "Yeah."

"I'm glad." Shiro clasped him on the shoulder, squeezing once. "See you at study group, right?"

Keith just stared at him, until Shiro let go with a slight frown. Then Keith seemed to shake off his odd mood, as the lights flashed a warning for class start. Shiro was about to turn away, when Keith's voice called him back.

"Hey," Keith said. "Thanks. For everything."

Shiro cocked his head, startled, and said the first thing that sprang to mind. "It's been my honor."

Keith's eyes went wide, then he smiled. One of his rare, genuine, smiles. A small thing, but it made Shiro smile in return, and he kept that smile for the remainder of the afternoon.

The study group gathered, but there was no sign of Keith. Janvi and Luiz hadn't seen him at dinner, either; they'd figured he'd gone on ahead to the library to get a jump-start on the weekend's homework. A half-hour passed. Keith still didn't appear.

All week, there had been small chimes in Shiro's head, distant warnings he'd been able to excuse or overlook. Those chimes had become klaxon bells. He sorted out the students' most pressing questions with a growing sense of urgency, and finally dug out his phone, stepping out of the conference room to make a quick call.

Mbabazi answered on the first ring. "Shiro? What's up?"

He didn't feel inclined to waste time on courtesies. "Have you seen Keith?"

"Not since this morning."

"Are you on the floor? Could you check his room for me?"

"Sure. What's this about? Do you think something's happened?" There were sounds of Mbabazi getting up, a door opening and shutting. Kid's voices in the hall, then Mbabazi rapping on a door. "Keith? Keith? You in there?" She knocked again. "No one's answering."

"Could you—" He couldn't bring himself to say it. Even if he'd wanted to, he couldn't say anything around the sudden ice gripping his heart.

"Shiro," Mbabazi said, softly. "Hold on." A moment passed, then several beeps. She'd overridden the lock on the door with her floor supervisor badge. A soft whoosh of the door, and click that had to be the light switch. "Oh, no."

Shiro put a hand over his mouth, refusing to consider the worst.

"He's gone," Mbabazi said. A rattling of a door, drawers opening and closing. "His own clothes are gone. But there's a red jacket here, pants, boots. All of his study notes and tablet, so neatly laid out, like he's—" She broke off with a sudden sob.

Shiro's heart stopped. "Mbabazi? What?"

"My brother did the same, before we lost him. Everything so neat and clean, straightened up like he wanted to save us the effort—" Her voice cracked. "I'll call Iverson. You check with security. Wherever Keith's gone, I don't think we have much time."

"Understood." Shiro hung up, and stuck his head back in the conference room. "Hernandez, you're in charge." He had the sense to grab his bag, slinging it over his shoulders as he ran full-speed through the library.

He took the stairs rather than wait for the elevator, down the corridors to the front security station. Carl was on duty again.

"Carl," Shiro called as he came around the corner. "Did Keith Kogane leave?" If he hadn't, if he'd gone to ground somewhere within Garrison, there were security cameras. Find Keith's last known position, and track him. There had to be time. There would be time.

"Oh, yeah, about two hours ago, I guess." Carl shrugged. "He had a pass for post-curfew return."

Shiro had his phone out, dialing even as he spoke. "Did he say where he was going?"

"My guess, an afternoon hike. Was out of uniform, had a small duffel bag. Sturdy boots—"

"Iverson," Shiro said, when the commander picked up. "Keith's gone."

"Mbabazi told me." Iverson exhaled heavily. "Any idea where he might have gone?"

"No." Shiro wanted to pound himself in the forehead. Where would Keith go? How far could he get on foot? Unless— "Sir, I'll call you right back." Shiro pocketed the phone and ran, out the front and across the huge courtyard to the garages. Keith didn't have the keys but he had stolen a hover, once; he knew how to hotwire the things.

But Shiro's flyer was still in its place, untouched. Shiro dialed Iverson again, at the same time he dug out his keys, opened the flyer's hold, and dropped his bag in.

"Iverson, Keith's on foot. Probably dressed lightly, and the sun's going down."

"Forecast says it'll hit the forties tonight," Iverson said. "Maybe worse if he heads into the foothills. I'm on my way to security. We'll check the roads in case he tries to hitchhike."

"I'm going ahead, sir." Shiro tucked his phone away and slung a leg over his flyer, gunning it out of the garage, almost full-speed to the gates. He screeched to a halt at the guard post. "Did you see a kid come this way, maybe two, three hours ago? About this tall, carrying a small bag, probably wearing all black."

The guards conferred. One of them had been on duty since noon, and about to end his shift. "Yeah, I saw him. Maybe sixteen hundred hours. Went out without a word, headed that way." The guard pointed down the road.

"Did he stay on the road? Did you see?"

"No, didn't watch him. But I do remember looking up a few minutes later, and he was gone. No one had come by, so I figured he'd gone off the road and taken one of the hiking—"

"Thanks," Shiro said, and twisted the throttle.

The flyer roared out of the gate, leaving the guard mid-word. About a quarter-mile down the road lay the first hiking path, a Garrison favorite for day-hikes. Shiro slowed, turning the flyer so its headlamp illuminated the path. Shiro bit back a curse. It hadn't rained in almost a month; the beaten-dirt path was full of footprints.   

Where was Keith headed? Shiro planted his feet on either side of the flyer, leaned back to stare at the first stars twinkling into life. The moon had just crested the horizon. Keith had never spoken of any place to go, to return to, and seeing how the concept was hardly Shiro's own favorite topic, he'd never thought to ask.

Except… the crew chief had said something about Keith wanting to see a map. Shiro had caught a glimpse of the screen, before Keith had turned off the display. It looked the same as any other desert satellite view.

On impulse, Shiro dug out his phone again, and dialed a number.

"Tomasiewicz," Toma said.

"Tell me you're on base this evening," Shiro said.

"Hey," Toma protested. "I did have a date, but—"

"Are you on base?"

"Uh. Yeah, sorry. What's going on?"

Shiro ran a hand down his face and took a deep breath. "I need to ask a favor."

 

 

 

Keith halted at the top of the outcropping. If there'd been a path, he'd not been too sure of it, so he'd gone straight up. The moon was half-full, hanging low on the horizon. He guessed the time at maybe twenty-hundred hours. He almost laughed at himself. Two months at Garrison and now he was even telling time like they did.

He dug out his crude map, turning it around to read by the light of the moon. He'd taken one of the day-hike paths, and that cut off maybe three miles by avoiding the highway. Right out into the desert, ground rising steadily until he'd reached the low foothills. Unless he'd badly lost his way at some point, just over the rise should be the road leading to the airbase.

Go right across, and then go alongside the highway for a half-mile. There was supposed to be an old sign by the road, marking the turn. That dirt road would turn into more of a rocky path, meandering slightly as it rose back into the hills. Eventually the ground would level out, a long straightaway where he could make better time. He needed to be there before the moon set, because he didn't think he could make it over the last stretch without some kind of light to see the path.  

Nerves—and that continued glass-vibration sense in his chest—kept him huddled by the side of the road, listening for the sounds of any vehicles. He counted to ten, then twenty to be safe, and dashed across the road, skidding to a halt on the dirt. He lost his balance and fell, twisting to land on his belly so he didn't crush his supplies.

Silence, except for a distant bird call. Closer, the slither of sand against belly as a snake pulled itself onto the road to soak up the last of the day's heat in the tarmac.  

Keith got to his feet, wiping dirt off his palms. Fortunately this area of the desert had few cacti, though plenty of rocks. The moon turned the red desert into a silvery land with pitch-black shadows. A single vehicle, far down the road, enough warning for Keith to duck down and wait for it to pass.

At the sign post, he stood, looking back at the highway. If he turned around now, no one would ever know. He could be back before his curfew-pass ran out. He scuffed at the dirt, trying to convince himself, though he wasn't sure of what.

The night had grown colder. He rubbed his arms through the thin t-shirt, and set his jaw. Halfway there. No reason to stop now, except sheer cowardice. Jets from the airbase roared overhead, too far for him to see their lights against the stars. Keith leaned back, wishing he could see them anyway, despite knowing Shiro wasn't among them.

No. He'd already made his choice. He'd said goodbye. That wasn't his life anymore.

The road ruts ended, became a narrow path along the rocky ground. It meandered back and forth as it rose, but at least the bordering rocks were good warning for when shadows obscured his feet. The wind had risen along with the moon, and it found every hole in his jeans. His feet ached. It'd been far too long since he'd worn his old boots.

Another pass from a jet, followed by that bone-crushing slam of a sonic boom. A second jet, low enough to catch sight of its afterburners as it turned up into a vertical climb. The light faded, and Keith shook his head and focused on the path.

The last bit of the path turned steep, forcing Keith to go almost on hands and knees. He paused twice to catch his breath, wiping the sweat from his forehead until his sleeves were damp. He pressed a hand against his chest, willing his heart to beat steadily instead of shivering with a painful throb. The wind chilled him to the bone, and he forced himself to keep moving.

The moon hung above the opposite horizon by the time he reached the top. If he'd not gotten himself turned around or somehow wandered from the path, there should be another long, straight road. Maybe two miles more to go, with a final hilly stretch before reaching the plateau.

In the last bit, he nearly turned an ankle scrambling over rockfall, stumbling between boulders thrown down the hillside. The noise echoed back and forth across the hills, shushing everything as the desert held its breath. Finally his feet touched level ground and he stopped to adjust his bag and get his bearings. The moon cast his shadow long across the road, distorting everything in his vision.

Except ahead of him, not too far away, was a single red dot. Keith blinked, rubbed his eyes, and squinted. The red dot remained, hanging, unmoving, maybe several feet over Keith's head. Had he accidentally walked right into restricted land? There'd been no markings on the map.

A distant keening sounded, then a jet flew high overhead. The red dot flared and went dark, and Keith stood in what felt like total darkness.

Gradually his eyes adjusted. He took one step forward, then another, as quietly as he could. A large, low, shape blocked the sky, blacking out the million tiny pinpricks of the stars. A faint rustle, a desert mouse, perhaps. A soft creak. Pebbles bouncing across the dirt. A footstep.

No, that was him. Keith froze. That wasn't him.

The shape before him resolved, and then the moon's final rays faded. Keith held perfectly still, squinting at the darkness. The barest outlines against the milky way, a silhouette. Someone tall, broad-shouldered, leaning against a low rock.

Red flickered on the ground, a reflection, then the red swung outwards, around, and up, held into the sky. A heartbeat later, a jet screamed overhead, closer this time. The red dot flared, faded, and was replaced by a solid square of yellowed light.

The square was lowered, tilted until it was face-up, gently illuminating Shiro's face.

"Hello, Keith," he said.

Keith stared, dumbfounded. It took three tries to find his voice. "What—what are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you." Shiro wiggled his phone, and its light danced across his face. He wore a tired smile. "And helping some friends practice night-time target practice."

"But—" Keith looked around, baffled, then caught himself. "I'm not going back."

"I hear you." Shiro straightened up from his lean against the red flyer. He took two steps forward, caught the straps of Keith's bag, and pulled it right off his shoulder.

"Hey!" Keith tried to catch, but Shiro had spun, tossing the bag into the dark. "That's my stuff!"

"It's fine." Shiro slid the coat off his shoulders, and wrapped it around Keith. "You've got to be freezing out here. Put that on."

"What—why—" Keith wanted to push the coat off, but it was warmth he'd not felt in hours, warmed further by Shiro's body heat. "You don't have to do this. Don't do this. You can't make me go back!"

"I'm not." Shiro caught Keith by the shoulder, pulling him forward to the flyer. "Get on."

"No." Keith struggled against the coat, but somehow his arms ended up in the sleeves. He growled, frustrated, and tried to wriggle the coat off, but Shiro had already caught the hems with a click, and zipped it up. "Stop this, _please_. I'm not coming with you."

"I heard you." Shiro caught Keith by the waist, picked him up, turned, and deposited him on the flyer.

Keith barely had a chance to get his legs around the flyer's belly, too shocked by the motion. Shiro climbed on ahead of him, then reached back, pulling Keith's arms around his waist.

"Shiro," Keith said, plaintive.

"You're not coming with me." Shiro pressed his hands over Keith's, clasped around Shiro's waist. "I'm coming with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look! look! [something beautifully adorable](http://eri-damon.tumblr.com/post/174015264647/shiro-putting-his-oversized-jacket-on-keith-this) by @eri-damon -- not specifically drawn for this chapter but it fits best here as a place for me to say go, see! how amazing! <3 <3 <3


	17. Chapter 17

Shiro brought the flyer to a halt and absently pushed Keith's duffel bag back down the handle so it wouldn't keep hitting his knee. Keith was a heavy, comfortable weight across his back; the lax hands were a sign the kid was sound asleep. Shiro checked the GPS, considered his options, and swung the flyer around to get a better sense of their surroundings.

Just one long flat road along the low mesa, intersecting with another road. It was on the map, but the real thing looked like barely more than a hollowed-out scoop in the flatness. If he went to the right, the road would lead back down to the valley, and to an old ghost town on the other side of the airbase. If he stayed on his current course, he'd reach an old shack. Neither seemed like an attractive option.

Shiro rubbed his eyes and put his phone away. No need to get lost in the desert, on top of everything else. It took some doing, but he managed to slide off the flyer, catch Keith, and lower him to the ground beside the flyer. Keith mumbled something and went right back to sleep.

It was fortunately quick work to unlash the Garrison's emergency kit from the flyer's tail. He'd done the day-long course in training with the kits, but he'd never expected to need one. For now, the only thing he needed was the reflective bag. He laid it out beside the flyer, got the coat off Keith and slung over the flyer's seat, then slid them both down into the sleeping kit.

The padding wasn't enough to blunt the rock digging into his hip, of course. Shiro shifted until he was at least somewhat comfortable, arranged Keith beside him, and pulled the bag mostly shut. Their body heat would make it warm soon enough.

Shiro woke with sunrise directly in his eyes, a mouthful of dark hair, and the sense of being crushed by a strong heat source. Somewhere in the four hours of sleeping, Keith had ended up sprawled across him, head on Shiro's chest. It was probably just right for Keith, since it put Shiro between Keith and every sharp rock. Shiro tried to shift Keith, grunting with the effort, and ended up settling for just poking the kid. Multiple times.

Keith made a complaining sound, stretched one arm out as he yawned, and banged his knuckles against the flyer's underbelly. "What the—"

"Morning," Shiro said.

"What—" Keith rolled sideways, tangled in the bag, and thrashed until he was free. "Cold—" He grabbed for the flight jacket, slinging it over his shoulders. "Where are we?"

"The high desert, unless you want latitude and longitude." Shiro slid from the sleeping bag, shook it out, and folded it up. The morning was brisk, but the sun was already heating the land. "I wasn't sure of the destination." He explained the two choices.

"It's that—" Keith stopped, studied the duffel bag still hanging from the flyer's bar. "I'm alright from here. You should go back now."

"I told you already." Shiro tucked the sleeping bag into the Garrison kit, and lashed it down securely between the flyer's tail fins. "I'm coming with you."

"Why would you—" Keith shut his mouth, scowling, but his shoulders were hunched.

Shiro rested an elbow on the bag and leaned against the flyer. He could've used another two hours of sleep, and then some. "All this way, you could at least let me have a cup of coffee. Besides, sun's coming up, and I don't want to unpack everything just to find a hat."

Keith stared at Shiro. He turned to study the road that led down, then the one that led forward. "You said that way is a small house?" He pointed.

"According to the satellite maps."

"Okay. That way." Keith didn't quite lose the frown, but he climbed onto the flyer behind Shiro without another word.

The road broke into pieces about a quarter-mile down, ground torn up by flash floods at some point in the past. Shiro kept the flyer even, running higher than usual, and the road smoothed out across the gulley. That would've been a nightmare to cross in the dark, with no moon.

Far in the distance, the only break in the horizon was a low house, a single tree, and what looked like the remains of an old farming fence. Shiro brought the flyer around, settling it down at the house's eastern end. Keith climbed off, hugging the flight jacket around him as he stared at the house. Shiro pocketed the keys and joined him.

It wasn't much more than a shack, really. And if Shiro was any judge, it had been built on the site of a decommissioned missile. The low hill not far from the house was too round, too unusual in the flatness to be natural. He suspected if he dug down a foot or so, he'd hit solid concrete. It fit, given the concrete structure with the metal door, made into a lean-to against the shack.

When Keith said nothing, Shiro stepped forward, cupping his hands to see through the door's one window. Generator, some machinery. Looked like the entrance to the silo had been sealed up, and now it was simply an extremely well-insulated room not much bigger than a large closet.

"The door's over here." Keith carried his bag in his arms, one hand in its depths, digging for something. He brought out a single key, took a deep breath, and with shaking hands got the key in the slot. He twisted. Nothing happened. "It's not working."

"Let me try?" Shiro waited until Keith gave him room, then put his shoulder against the door, twisted the key, and lifted at the same time. A strong twist, and the door swung open. He motioned to Keith, letting him go first.

Everything was covered with old bedsheets, mostly white, a few with yellow stripes. Keith wandered the small space, tugging a sheet off a chair, then a large table that was really just half of a door propped up on old books. The stucco had cracked on the walls, revealing wood beneath; in some places, someone had tried to plaster over the damage with plain wallpaper.

"There's someone who comes by like twice a year, to check on it," Keith said. "I don't know who it is. I think it's someone the court appointed." He pulled a sheet off a high cabinet in the corner, revealing a server rack of some sort.

Shiro stayed by the door, giving Keith his space. This had been a house Keith shared with his parents, yet there was no sign of Keith anywhere. No toys, no children's bedding. This wasn't a home; this felt more like an observation shack, all research and equipment.

"I'm going to make some coffee," Shiro said. "Want some?"

"You mean—" Keith stopped, cheeks flushing. "Yeah."

"I'll be right outside." Shiro let himself out. It didn't take more than a few minutes to set up the kit on the rickety porch, and lay out the solar collector. He fetched the water jugs from the flyer, along with the clothes Mbabazi had packed for Keith.

Keith stepped out of the house as the water bubbled, and Shiro made a second cup. Keith settled down on the porch's edge, just out of arm's reach. He blew on the liquid's surface, gaze fixed on some point far across the red-gold plateau.

"Here." Shiro laid the stack of clothes between them, red jacket and mechanic's belt on top, and the garrison boots beside them. "You forgot to bring these."

Keith started, almost jostling the coffee. He sipped it, hissed at the heat, then slowly raised his gaze to meet Shiro's. "Those are your clothes."

"Sure, when I could fit into them. But I gave them to you."

"You didn't have to."

"True." Shiro brought one leg up, sitting half-crossed, the other leg stretched out. "Seems like they'd be handy, though. I'm not sure those jeans will make it through another hike."

Keith frowned, realizing. His jeans had split at one knee, and somewhere in his hike a boulder must've caught his leg, leaving a long rip. He pulled on the fabric a few times and made a face. "Fine." He picked up the clothes and went into the house. He didn't quite slam the door, but that could've just been because the door sagged too much to swing freely.

He returned a few minute later, dumping his discarded clothes in a pile by the door. He drank the coffee quickly, almost impatiently, and set the empty cup down. His brows were down, and he looked ready for a fight.

That didn't bother Shiro. He'd been through enough fights to know what it took to win.

"Thanks for the ride, but you should be getting back now," Keith said.

"I'm in no hurry." Shiro raised his cup, like a toast. "No hop this weekend. I'm free."

"You can't just leave Garrison. You—you have— _obligations_."

Shiro shrugged casually, but kept watch on Keith from the corner of his eye. "They can wait."

"No, they can't!" Keith twisted in place to bring a fist down on the wood, and the force made his cup topple over. "You can't keep throwing things away just for me!"

"Who said I was throwing anything away?"

"Dun—everyone—plenty of people," Keith sputtered. "You've been meeting with important people, you've got important things to do. Stop wasting time here—"

"Keith." Shiro cradled his cup between his hands. "Right now, this is the only important thing I need to be doing."

"You're not supposed to be sitting here—in the middle of nowhere—just drinking coffee!"

"I am if this is where I need to be."

"You _need_ to be back at Garrison, getting ready to go into space! Isn't _that_ what you want to do? You're just going to screw it all up if you keep wasting time on me!" Keith came up on his knees, nearly vibrating in place. His shouts echoed off the shack and bounced against the missile silo mound. "I'm just going to hold you back, and I can't take that! So _leave_. Just go, already!"    

Shiro considered several responses, turning each over his head. His heart ached, but his mind was clear. "Is that what you think you're doing? Holding me back?"

"Why are you the only person who can't seem to _get_ that?"

"Keith." Shiro finished off his cup, then reached across to pick up Keith's cup. He ignored Keith's sudden flinch, and stiffened his spine to hide the hurt. "You're not holding me back. You're holding me up."

It was clearly enough of an unexpected response that Keith froze in place, speechless. His mouth was open, emotions flickering openly across his face: shock, fear, disbelief, confusion.

"I'm not sure how to explain." Shiro uncrooked his leg, turning to face the wide plateau rather than Keith. Something were hard enough to say in daylight; harder still when looking someone in the eye. "So I guess I'll start at the beginning."

 

 

 

Keith sank down on his heels, dumbfounded. His heart hammered, anger swirling with fear that Shiro _would_ get up and walk away, and never look back. But Shiro remained on the porch, looking out across the land, his profile edged with gold as the sun rose higher.

"My father was an army officer," Shiro said. "What people don't realize about the military is that you move. A lot. From when I was six to when I was twelve, we moved every six months. January and July." He bent his head, and his smile was bitter, turned inward. "I never had warning. I'd come home from school and find movers had already packed everything up. They'd throw out anything my father thought wasn't suitable for his only son, of course, and by nightfall we'd be on a plane to our next assignment. I used to have nightmares about coming home too late to find everyone gone."

Keith could only stare. He knew that feeling. Every foster home had that sense of unease, that it could all disappear if he looked the other way.

"I had a hard time talking to other kids already, and…" Shiro shrugged. "When you're always the new kid, it just makes it even harder." He glanced sideways, that smile becoming a shared pain.

Keith couldn't stop the nod. He knew exactly what that was like.

"But I was very good at talking with my fists." Shiro turned a hand over, studying it. "I couldn't bark orders like my father did, and I was too short and weak to do much more than fall over when he hit me. I learned, though. And just like my father did to me, anyone who so much as looked at me sideways, I took as a challenge."

That was hard to imagine. Shiro was calm. He was patient. Keith had only ever felt safe around him, but the person Shiro described didn't sound safe at all.   

"I was an officer's son, though. Every teacher on post was enlisted. They weren't going to discipline a kid whose father could end their career with a word." Shiro bent forward, elbows on his knees, his tone growing softer. "Eventually my father decided he couldn't control me any longer. I was bound for military school, and he'd come get me when they'd made a real man out of me."

He fell silent, lost in his thoughts. Keith's legs had started to fall asleep, and he shifted, as quietly as he could. He let one leg hang off the porch, and brought up the other, wrapping his arms around his shin.

Shiro made a sound almost like a laugh. "It was the one time I got smart. My father had picked out three places, but I already knew I didn't want to be Army. I wanted to study the stars. I wanted to be an astronaut. So I told him I didn't care where I went, but I absolutely, point-blank, _refused_ to attend Galaxy Garrison."

What? Keith twisted to rest his chin on his knee, watching the bitter amusement play out on Shiro's face.

"It was a gamble, but it worked. As soon as he thought he had the best way to make me miserable, nothing would stop him. It was Garrison or nothing, and I was packed up and sent off." Shiro sat up, rolling his shoulders. "But I arrived as a fighter, and I stayed a fighter. No one was going to push me down again, ever, and if they tried, I'd take them down first. But everything I have, everything I've done, I've had to fight every step of the way. By myself, for myself. Always."

Keith had no idea what to say. Shiro spoke as though he found the concept wearying. Keith privately found it admirable. He'd always found it easier just to run. He couldn't imagine having the force of will to stand his ground.

"And now the one person—the _only_ person—who's ever stood up for me, fought _on my behalf_ —wants to just walk away—" Shiro turned his gaze on Keith. The morning sun turned his dark gray eyes to amber. "And you think I'm going to stand by and let that _happen_?"

Keith's mind churned through protests, each one too inadequate. He'd forgotten that glimpse of the other Shiro, the one hidden as deep inside as Keith hid his own true self. He hesitated, uncertain, and Shiro's intent expression settled into unhappy lines.

Shiro exhaled abruptly, looking away.

It gave Keith the space to move. A bit, then another bit, scooting closer until their thighs touched, and Keith's shoulder was against Shiro's arm. Tension ran like a live wire through Shiro's body, a stillness like the moment before thunder, or the eerie distant keening before a jet's sonic boom would shake the windows. And then Shiro slowly exhaled, relaxing, and Keith leaned into him, still unable to find the words.

Shiro shifted, bringing his arm around behind Keith's back. It wasn't an embrace, but it felt like support. Shiro had promised to always have his back. If Shiro believed there was something Keith could do, to repay him, Keith thought he might be willing to try. He still hadn't found the words to say that, though.

His stomach did the talking for him, with a loud rumble.

Shiro laughed, a true laugh. He got up, putting out his hand to help Keith up. "Guess it's time to find out what the cafeteria packed for us, and then let's get your house in order."

"The cafeteria?" Keith followed Shiro to the flyer, baffled. Shiro had even brought food?

"I'm bad at catching lizards, and I don't care much for rattlesnake." Shiro opened up the flyer's hatch, bringing out a large insulated box. "Here." He dug in further, and brought out his off-duty clothes. When Keith frowned, Shiro just shrugged. "Always keep a change of clothes in the flyer. Never know when you'll need them. Let's see what we're having for lunch."

 

 

 

Shiro figured if they ate light, they'd have enough to eat through the following evening. He'd like to think they'd return sooner, but he wasn't going to rush things. They'd come to a kind of truce, too delicate for more than the lightest of words.

The cafeteria was wise to the desert, at least, packing frozen food. Some would need to defrost and be cooked; Shiro set those aside for when it got cold enough to need a fire. They ate side-by-side on the porch, talking little, and what little they said, Shiro intentionally kept light. He felt wrung out enough, as it was. It wasn't a story he'd ever planned to tell anyone, and he wasn't sure he'd ever look back on his childhood with anything but shame.

When the meal was done, Shiro let Keith set the pace, and lead the way. Most of the items in the house, Keith left alone, though he straightened up the books that had fallen over on the shelves. Shiro busied himself taking the sheets outside, shaking the dust off, and folding them. He'd rather have packed them up for a trip to the laundry, but he'd leave that for Keith to realize, and to decide.

To his surprise, there were things Keith was willing to sacrifice, once he'd looked them over. Mice had gotten into some of the books, and there wasn't much left of them; an entire box of empty cardboard rolls wasn't much better off. Keith mumbled something about burning them, and set them outside.

Shiro's fingers itched to pause long enough to open one of the books, see what topic had so obsessed Keith's father. But Keith seemed to have no interest—or he knew, and wasn't ready to say—and Shiro had no intention of prying. Sadly, every cover had faded in the passage of years, and even the titles were illegible.

They wrestled the futon-mattress outside to air it out, propping it up against the lone tree behind the house.

Keith stepped back, wiping a hand across his forehead. "Are you seeing someone, right now?"   

"Am I what?" Shiro couldn't contain the grin. "When do I have time to do that?"

A shadow crossed Keith's face, and he shrugged.

Shiro winced. "I meant, now is not a good time."

"Why not? Janvi said she heard you were seeing someone." Keith frowned. "Aren't you?"

"No. I mean, no." Shiro kept his face turned away. His ears were hot. He wondered if he could blame that on the afternoon heat. "I dated in college, some. But it was always casual. I knew I'd be going into space. Why start something, only to be gone for months? That doesn't seem fair to anyone else."

"Oh. So why does everything think you are?"

"Because people like to talk?" Shiro cursed silently. If he said anything to Emily, she'd put the clues together and figure it out. He was stuck. "I really don't know why people care about what I do, anyway."

"Because you're you."

Keith's tone was so simple, so direct, that Shiro nearly tripped over his own feet. "What?"

"You're the best. Of course everyone wants to see what you'll do next."

"Keith—" Shiro rubbed his forehead, and turned to face Keith. "Do you honestly have no clue that very soon it's going to be _you_ that everyone is watching?"   

"Me?" Realization dawned, but when Keith retreated, expression shuttering, Shiro knew Keith's mind had leaped to the wrong conclusion. Again.

"Your scores are going to make mine look like a first-year's flailing," Shiro said, bluntly. "You've barely any training and already you've broken every record. Whatever you've got, whatever's in your body or your head that clicks together in the right way, you are already on your way to being the best goddamn pilot anyone has ever seen. Ever."

"No, I'm nothing like—"

"You are." Shiro caught Keith by the shoulders, bending a little so he could capture Keith's gaze. "People are going to say shit to you. They're going to try and talk you down, make you feel like you're nothing, because they can't even begin to comprehend how you can do what you do. I know how to do it, and _I_ can't even comprehend."

"I'm just trying to fly like you do," Keith whispered.

"And very soon, it's going to take everything I have to fly like _you_ do," Shiro replied. "For a long time, Roy was the best, hands-down. Then I came along. And now here you are, and it's my turn. This isn't a fight, but if it was, it's the first one in my life I'll willingly concede. Because you're just that damn good."

Keith's brows lowered, unconvinced.

"If you want to stay here, that's your choice. But you'd be walking away from something that is absolutely bound to take you to some amazing places. I want to see that. I promise to work as hard as I can to keep up with you, but I can't do that if you're not with me."

"Keep up with me?" Keith edged back, but Shiro didn't let go. "It takes everything I've got just to keep up with _you_."

"For now, sure. A year from now?" Shiro shook his head. "A year from now, I'm going to be moving my portrait into second place in the main hall, and I'm looking forward to it."

"Why? Nothing you say makes sense," Keith burst out, twisting until Shiro was forced to release him. "I've never done anything like that. I've never been anything. I don't know why you keep saying that."

"Because it's true." Shiro stepped back, waiting until Keith's agitation had cooled. "I get you're always going to doubt that. It's okay. I'll be here to remind you."

"And then one day you won't be, and it won't make any difference," Keith retorted, mouth twisted in an angry line. "Something will happen—"

"No." Shiro lifted one shoulder, the barest shrug. "Yes, I'll go into space. But I'll be back. And me being somewhere else won't change anything. I'll still be telling you the same thing."

"How am I supposed to trust that?" Keith crossed his arms, shoulders hunched. "That's not how it works. That's not how it's ever worked. You can say all you like, but you'll leave, too."

There were currents deeper than Shiro could see, but the words felt right. "I won't, and I'll prove it to you."

Fear and naked longing warred in Keith's face. His question was almost a cry. " _How?_ "

"Because I'll still be with you." Shiro smiled. "You can worry all you like, but I'm not going anywhere. And it's okay if it takes you ten years, or twenty, to believe that. I'll still be with you."

Keith stared, for a long time, and gradually his expression settled into an uneasy acceptance. He wasn't quite willing to trust, but he was willing to wait and see.

Shiro was fine with that. That was one fight he knew he'd win, eventually.

 

 

 

Keith poked another mouse-eaten cardboard tube into the fire, while Shiro heated the stew. Through some unspoken agreement, they'd ended up setting up the fire on the little hill in front of the house. The sparks flew into the cooling night air, glowing yellow against a backdrop of a million silvery lights.

When dinner was ready, they ate from the same pot, their conversation mostly consisting of odd discoveries of each other's tastes. Keith disliked potatoes, but would eat them. Shiro hated carrots, and wanted nothing to do with them.

Afterwards, they stretched out on the hill, reluctant to get up. The desert was hushed in the dying twilight, and Keith shivered. Shiro got up with a murmur, then returned a few moments later with the flight jacket. He had one arm through the sleeve, and draped the rest over Keith's shoulder, pulling him close.

Keith tilted his head back, watching the stars. The observatory room at the Garrison had been beautiful, but it couldn't capture the sense of vastness, seeing the real thing.   

The silence stretched on, comfortable, until Keith nudged Shiro, and pointed upwards. "Do you miss it?"

Shiro was quiet for a long moment, then he sighed. "Very much. It's hard to explain. We are a single blue planet in an infinite sea. On that scale, humans must be so insignificant, our worries so petty, everything we've done so unremarkable. Yet… when I look up at the stars, I don't feel small, Keith. I feel _connected_."

Keith considered that. The heavens above were beautiful, enchanting, yet somehow terrifying, and not just because he had so little comprehension of them. Somewhere along the way, he had learned a few of the constellations, but nowhere near the amount Shiro must know. Keith doubted that was one of his father's lessons. All Keith could remember of their night-time treks was that the moon was a beacon of reflected light, but his father rarely watched it. He'd watched the sky, much as Shiro now did.

"I may be going back," Shiro murmured. "I've been talking with an astrobiologist who's looking for a pilot-in-command for his next scientific mission."

"How long?" Keith wasn't sure which he meant: how long would Shiro be gone, or how long until Keith lost him to that celestial pull.

"Well…" Perhaps Shiro wasn't sure, either. "It'll take two years to plan, given the distances Dr. Holt is planning." His tone became one of wonderment, astonishment. "Edge of the solar system, Keith. The first humans to reach that far. Unless we come up with significant breakthroughs, though, at our current technology it'll take five months to get there, and five months back. I'll be gone a year, at most."

A year. An entire year.

"Don't worry. I'll be here for the next two years. We have time. And I'll be back in time for your graduation, with a few months to spare." Shiro slanted a smile down at Keith, lit only by the glow of the milky way. "You enter the space training camp, and the next time I go… I'll take you with me?"

"Yes," Keith dared to say. "I'll be ready."


	18. Chapter 18

Shiro fell out of dreams to clattering and the creak of wood. He rolled over, squinting at the dawn's earliest rays across the ground. They'd used the sleeping tarp on the porch, and when Keith rolled over in the middle of the night to drape himself across Shiro again, at least what lay beneath Shiro had been a smooth surface, if not soft.

"Keith?" Shiro sat up, pulling the bag with him, twisting in place to lean against the shack, legs stretched out across the porch. He exhaled, and his breath hung in the air.

"You're up?" Keith came around the end of the house, zipping up his jeans. Barefoot, no jacket, wearing what he'd slept in. He hopped up on the porch, and went down his knees beside the desert kit, fiddling with something. "How do you like your coffee?"

"Black and sweet, if there's sugar. If not, I'll live."

"Got it." Keith shut down the solar collector, closed up the kettle, and carried two steaming cups over to Shiro. He held them out of the way when Shiro reached. "Wait."

"What?" Shiro kept his hand out, mystified when Keith set both cups down, just out of reach. Maybe Keith expected him to get up, but it was Sunday, his one day to sleep late. He had no idea of the time; he'd left his watch in his jacket pocket.

"I'm freezing. Move over." Keith squatted down at Shiro's side, teeth chattering slightly, and slid quickly into the bag. Shiro ended up with his arm around Keith's shoulder, pulling up the bag as Keith wriggled down a bit more until he was situated.

Something icy pressed against Shiro's ankles. "Your feet!"

"Sorry." Keith didn't sound all that apologetic. He retrieved the coffee, handing Shiro's over. "Thought you'd want coffee to start the day."

"Thanks." Shiro took a sip and nearly burnt his tongue. Keith looked worried, and Shiro waved a hand at him. Burning coffee on one end, freezing feet on the other. He had to laugh. He slung his free arm over Keith's shoulder. "Good morning."

"Morning." Keith tucked himself against Shiro's side, seemingly content to watch the sunrise.

A red-tailed hawk shrieked somewhere in the distance, and a moment later the sound of car traffic filtered in. From the map, the only road in five miles was the road to the airbase. Probably the delta-flight crew leaving after its night hop.

"Any plans for today?" Shiro let the question hang, his gaze on a lizard that had clambered up on the flyer's nearest wing.

"We could go for a hike," Keith suggested. "There's some pretty cool rock formations over that way." He swirled the coffee in his cup. "I think."

"Walk? Not take the flyer?"

Keith slanted a sideways look at Shiro. Not uncertain. Amused. It was a good look on him.

Not much of an answer, though. Shiro tried a different tack. "Isn't your birthday soon?"

"My—" Keith coughed around his swallow. "How do you know that?"

"It's on your student records." Shiro finished off his coffee and set it aside. "Are you going to ask Iverson about a flyer's license?"

Keith mumbled something under his breath.

"Maybe you just need to meet an instructor cool enough to let you fly his," Shiro said.

"You're kidding." Keith leaned past Shiro just enough to see the red flyer, gleaming in the morning sun. "You'd let me fly?"

"I've seen you fly," Shiro reminded him. "I think you can handle it."

Keith grinned, slouching back down against Shiro.

"So." Shiro craned his neck to look at the porch, the windows now open to air out the house. "This was your parents' place?"

"My dad's." Keith's tone was soft, but his expression looked preoccupied.

"Sorry, just trying to imagine a kid living here."

"Here?" Keith blinked and looked around. "No, we had an apartment… I'm not sure where. But we used to come out here, sometimes."  He hunkered down, pulling the bag up around his shoulders. "I didn't even know my Dad owned it, until the courts notified me."

Was this where Keith had been heading, when he'd stolen that hover? Shiro squashed the questions, and stretched broadly. He casually let one arm swing out to knock Keith in the head.

"Hey." Keith swatted at Shiro's arm.

"Whoops." Shiro climbed out of the bag with a grin, padding over to where he'd stuffed his socks and boots into the desert kit. He pissed off the porch with a relieved sigh, and pulled on his boots and jacket while Keith packed up the sleeping tarp.

Keith shoved socked feet into his garrison boots and stood. "So are we gonna take the flyer, or walk?"

 

 

 

Keith didn't have a problem with walking, really. He led the way, a little annoyed that Shiro had first insisted on sunscreen, and then slapped a floppy hat on him, anyway. About a mile north of the shack, the trail led down an escarpment into a valley of rock formations.

There was little conversation, once they'd found a pace that suited them. Keith couldn't quite bring himself to accept he'd go back to Garrison. Shiro's words still murmured in the back of his head, along with all the other words that chewed at his mind.

They paused among three pinnacles, shading them from the midday sun. Wind had scoured the dirt smooth except for the sinuous line of a snake's passage. Lizards skittered as Shiro crouched down to open the bag with their lunch.

By mid-afternoon, they crossed into the canyon, where a small creek held its last streak of water. Over their heads, the canyon rose nearly vertical, but the sandstone crumbled with a little bit of pushing. Others had been here, scratching their names into the canyon wall. Keith scowled and rubbed at the newest set of dates and initials.

"We should come back," Shiro said, squinting up at the height. "Bring some rope. Ever done rappelling?"

"Not on purpose." Keith tugged off his boot, dislodging the pebble that had somehow snuck in. He stood, stomping his foot, and realized Shiro's meaning. "You want to come back?"

"Why not?"

"You have weekend hops. And—things you should be doing." Not this again. How many times would Keith have to remind Shiro?

"I think the world can do without us for a weekend, every now and then." Shiro grinned and tugged Keith's hat down so the brim covered his eyes, laughing when Keith swatted blindly. "It's good to be quiet, sometimes."

"We should probably turn around now, if we want to be back before dark."

"Lead on, McDuff."

Keith rolled his eyes, making sure his back was to Shiro before he showed the grin. Shiro could be a bit goofy, too. Maybe without the Garrison putting them both on guard, he was finally seeing more of that real Shiro, buried so deep. Stupid jokes aside, it wasn't a bad thing.

He kept his eyes on the path, but somehow got them turned around twice. Each time Shiro looked around, noted some landmark, and got them back on course. Keith simply sighed and took up the lead position again.

Every now and then a rock formation would seem to glitter in the corner of Keith's eye, but whenever he turned to look, he lost that sense of familiarity. He had so few childhood memories, each one faded like the washed-out yellow-gold dirt beneath his feet. No wonder he'd never found the shack before, despite all his attempts.

They reached the shack at dusk, and Shiro set about packing everything up. A chill rose in the air as the desert gave up its warmth. Keith put on his jacket, then Shiro's flight jacket, and hunched on the porch, watching Shiro work.

Once everything was done, Shiro joined Keith on the porch, tugging at the coat until Keith relinquished an arm so Shiro could drape it over both of them. Shiro was silent. The shack's shadow stretched out across the flat ground, covering the low mound, the shadow's crisp edges fading as the darkness gathered. Stars appeared on the eastern horizon.

Keith tugged the jacket up higher, curling in close to Shiro. He'd spent all day choosing his words, and failing to ever speak them. Shiro had trusted him, and he couldn't return to Garrison until he'd answered that trust. He just had to work up the nerve.

"I don't remember anything of my mom," he finally said. "Dad didn't like to talk about her, either."

Shiro made a soft sound in his throat, and shifted closer.

Keith tucked his knees up, wrapping the coat around him. "There was a woman who'd watch me during the day, I think. If my Dad was around, we'd come out here."

More stars lit up the darkest part of the eastern sky. Overhead, the sky was purple-blue as the sun threw its last light across the land. The shack had become an empty darkness behind them.

"Dad didn't talk much." Keith sighed, edging at the truth sideways. He had no idea how Shiro had the nerve to speak, the night before. He had to keep reminding himself to breathe.

 

 

 

Shiro held his breath for a moment, testing the sensation of Keith against him, then exhaled long and slow. Keith was trembling, and it wasn't a shiver from the chill. He slid his arm under the jacket and around Keith, holding him close.

"I was maybe seven," Keith whispered. "I realized there were other kids my age around. They'd wait for the school bus in front of the apartments."

There was no mistaking a note of wistfulness. Shiro remembered seeing kids his age, enlisted mens' children. He'd been forbidden to talk to them.

"I begged Dad to let me go. I don't know why, but I was determined." Keith fidgeted, fingers catching at the edges of the jacket. "One day, he said he'd take me to someone who'd get me into school. Put on my jacket, pack up a few things in a backpack, and he gave me a letter."

Carefully, cautiously, Shiro moved his free hand to lie palm-up across Keith's thigh. There was no reaction, no sound, until Keith took Shiro's hand and gripped it tight.

"We walked until we reached a neighborhood with houses. Dad told me to go up to the door, knock, and give them the letter. Someone lived there who'd get me into school." Keith's voice was little more than a whisper, barely louder than the skritch of lizards crawling into their burrows under the porch. "The woman who answered didn't know me, and there was nothing in the letter. I turned around to point at Dad, but he was gone."

Shiro's heart nearly stopped. He squeezed Keith's hand, silent reassurance.

"After all that, school wasn't even as exciting as I'd hoped. I never saw my Dad again, either. If I hadn't been so selfish—" He broke off, frustration coloring his words.

"Keith." Shiro pressed his forehead to Keith's temple. "You were a _kid_."

"I know, but—" Keith halted, and Shiro leaned back to see Keith's expression change, recriminations replaced by confusion. "I kept pushing—"

"You were a kid. That's what kids do. You didn't deserve to be tricked like that."

"No, I—if I hadn't—"

"You were a kid," Shiro repeated, softer. "None of it was your fault."

"You're not listening to me." His voice cracked. "If I hadn't insisted—"   

"You were a _kid_." Shiro could think of nothing else to do but tug at Keith's hand, drawing it around his waist. Keith twisted in place and bent into him. Shiro wrapped his arms around Keith, rocking, a gentle sway.

Keith's fingers dug into Shiro's vest, pulling the fabric taut. He made no sound, simply pressed his forehead against Shiro's shoulder.

Shiro turned his head, enough to tuck Keith under his chin, holding on. "I promise you, whatever you want, tell me. You need something, tell me. I have your back. Always."

Keith's nod was hesitant.

"Come on," Shiro whispered, as the last light faded into twilight. "Let's go home."

A phrase he'd never thought to apply to the Garrison in his five years as a student, yet it fit. He guided Keith onto the flyer, flipped on his phone as a flash and swept the light over the shack. Its dark windows reflected the light sullenly. There would be time enough to mend their wounds, but for now, Iverson had left too many messages and Shiro had ignored them for long enough. He tapped out a quick text and tucked the phone into his pocket.

He wasn't inclined to traverse the rocky slope in the dark, so he took the long side-road Tamo had found him on the map. A few miles out of their way, but the desert was somnolent, and they reached the highway in good time. Keith's embrace around Shiro's waist remained firm, and he squeezed gently in response when Shiro patted his hands.

They reached the main gate about an hour after dark. Keith helped him push the flyer into the garage stall, and they cleaned out the flyer's belly, and undid the desert kit from the tail fins. Shiro carried his uniform, while Keith had an armful of his dirty clothes.

To Shiro's surprise, Iverson wasn't waiting. Nor was Claudia. Instead, Mbabazi paced the main corridor, dark face troubled. When they walked through the door, she turned with a cry, crossing the distance with her arms out.

"Keith!" She put her arms on his shoulders, checking him over, then looking intently into his face.

They were of a height, and Keith looked ready to twist out of her grasp. For once, he wasn't fast enough. She pulled him close, wrapping her arms around him, one hand brushing back his wind-blown tangles. Keith made strange bitten-off sound, shoulders tense. Mbabazi ran a hand down his neck, shushing him until he relaxed.

When she pushed Keith back to study his face, he looked far younger than his almost-fifteen years. Bewildered and off-balance, clutching Shiro's crumpled uniform to his chest like protection.

"Don't you ever scare me like that again!" Mbabazi put her hands on Keith's cheeks, forcing him to look at her. "Promise me you'll never do that again. Things get that bad, you come find me first. You hear me?"

When he didn't answer, she gave him a little shake. Keith's cheeks pinked, and he mumbled a response. Mbabazi simply pulled him into a hug again.

"You've still got time to get dinner," she said, letting him go and holding out her hands. "GIve me those things, I'll take them down to the exchange and you can get right to the cafeteria."

"Appreciate it," Shiro said. His stomach had been growling for most of the trip home.

"The gratitude is all mine," Mbabazi said.

They walked in silence along the halls to the cafeteria. Sunday dinner was often much quieter; most people picked up something to go, taking it back to their rooms to eat while they studied. Shiro had filled his tray and was halfway to their usual table when Iverson appeared. Shiro juggled the tray to get a hand up to salute.

"At ease." Iverson leaned back, looking down his nose at Keith. "Cadet! You ever pull bullshit like that again without my permission, you'll have KP for at least a month, understand me?"

"Sir," Keith whispered, shoulders hunched.

Iverson rounded on Shiro. "Same goes for you, lieutenant!"

Shiro was ready. He saluted with a sharp, "Sir!"

Iverson narrowed his one good eye at Shiro. "Don't be giving me any attitude."

"Not at all, sir."

"Right." Iverson grunted, looked them both over, and stormed off.

Keith made a face, and Shiro elbowed him. "That was Iverson saying he's glad we both didn't die of snake bite."

"Sure." Keith looked distinctly unconvinced.

"If he was really upset, we would've gotten lecture number eighteen. That's the one about sneaking off-campus after dark without permission." Shiro set his tray on their table, crossing one leg under him. He wasn't in uniform. He could sit casually if he wanted to.

Keith sat beside him, fingers plucking at the sandwich. After a moment he raised his head, looking around the half-empty cafeteria, the windows now dark with the desert night, then Shiro. He ducked his head with a tentative smile.

"Keith." Shiro put a hand on Keith's shoulder. "It's good to have you back."

Keith hesitated, then whispered, "It's good to be back." His smile was sweetly genuine. 


	19. Chapter 19

Keith got to his room, dropped off his duffel bag, and was out again to catch a shower before curfew. The hot water was heavenly, and from the dirt swirling down the drain, he was covered in at least six layers of desert.

Twenty minutes later he was stumbling back to his room, woozy from the heat. He collapsed across the bed, staring up at the ceiling for several long minutes, before popping upright again.

If he was here, he would stay, and that meant he had homework to do.

Except... something was different. His tablet sat in the same place, next to his stacks of flashcards. His uniform had been put away, replaced by a small box wrapped in brown paper. Keith turned it over, puzzled, then slid a fingernail beneath the tape, undoing the package without tearing any of the paper.

At first he didn't believe it. He turned the box around twice, studying the bold-faced brand name, before working up the nerve to open the box. A sleek cell phone reflected the lamplight at him. He lifted it out, baffled, and saw the note.

Neatly-stenciled letters, almost architectural in their precision, telegraphic in their wording:

ACCOUNT SET UP. PHONE FULLY CHARGED. ALL PERTINENT NUMBERS LOADED. CONSIDER IT EARLY BIRTHDAY. GO NOWHERE WITHOUT THIS.

Keith snorted, somewhere between amusement and confusion. It seemed like something Iverson would say, not that Keith could comprehend Iverson buying anyone a new phone, let alone Keith. He sat down on the bed cross-legged, hunched over the phone and the instruction book. It took two tries to get it to turn on, and he figured out the charging cords while the phone loaded up.

The phone lit up, and Keith contemplated the message that he needed to choose a password. He let the phone fall back asleep while he pondered, then he woke it up and tapped in his password. When the phone beeped acknowledgement and had him sign in again, Keith entered the letters with a smile.

R-A-P-T-O-R.

A dozen apps had already been installed. One was a calendar, hooked up to the school's system, and already loaded with his reminders. Keith studied the rest, and left them for later, baffled by the number next to the messages icon. He clicked it, startled to find a number of texts waiting.

Each one was answering a text from the phone. Over and over: _Keith Kogane, new phone number._

Hernandez had replied, asking if he'd had fun hiking in the desert. Jae-Hee's text had attached logs from the jet flight group. Luiz had sent a picture of himself, Janvi, and the three students in team eighteen, arranged behind the largest bowl of ice cream Keith had ever seen.

 _Next time you join us_ , Luiz' text said. _Can't do this alone._

Janvi had texted a photo of the ice cream's half-empty bowl. _Couldn't finish_ , her text said. _Hope you had fun hiking, see you in class Monday._

Keith slowly tapped out a response to each and set the phone aside. He needed to unpack the duffel, and return it to the lost-and-found. He'd made his choice. He wouldn't need it again. On the other hand—as he filled the desk drawer with oatmeal, cereal, and snacks—he was set for late-night meals for at least the next four weeks.

The last thing out of the bag was his knife.

He sat back on his heels and withdrew the knife from its sheath. Before the self-defense classes, he'd only ever fought with a knife, but never this one. It felt too heavy in his hands, unbalanced for some reason. He studied his reflection in the blade for a moment.

Maybe he could've shown Shiro this knife, his only treasure. A broken-down shack and a machete-sized knife. Not exactly the inheritance he would've wanted, and he would've traded both to get his father back. But then again, he was fourteen—almost fifteen—and there was no way the Garrison would let him keep the knife if they knew.

He'd already lost it for four years, when a social worker insisted on locking it in a safe deposit box. It'd taken a judge's permission for Keith to get control of that bank box for himself. Nothing in it but the knife, but that was all that mattered. It was all that was left.   

He tucked the knife under his mattress, back where he'd hidden it since entering school. The phone beeped. A text message.

Shiro: _don't stay up too late._

Keith rolled his eyes and typed a quick response. Janvi had answered as well, and he replied with a question about the homework for Cohen. While he waited, he scrolled through the contacts. The entire jet flight group had been entered, along with the exchange, the laundry, and Iverson, Shiro, Föcker, LaSalle, and Mbabazi.

The phone beeped at him again, prompting him to complete setting up his profile. Keith couldn't resist, too curious. He tapped the screen, and his profile appeared.

He didn't care much for his school ID picture being on there, but he could live with it. His name, room number, flight team… and down at the bottom, in the area for miscellaneous notes, one word. Fireball.

Keith snorted, not sure what to think. Half-amused, and mostly disbelieving, he set the phone aside. He really did have homework to do.   

 

 

 

Shiro presented himself to the conference room across from Iverson's office, once his physics classes were dismissed. Föcker, Montgomery, Mbabazi, and LaSalle had joined Iverson; the five were arranged like a panel of judges, and just as solemn. Shiro saluted, waited for Iverson's nod, and took a seat opposite.

When no one said anything, Shiro realized he wasn't the one being questioned. He settled his hands in his lap and got right to the point.

"Cadet Kogane wanted to leave school because he'd been told he was putting my career in jeopardy," Shiro said. "He chose to leave rather than let that happen."

The five blinked at him, startled.

"That wasn't what I was expecting," Mbabazi finally said.

"I thought he'd broken under the pressure," Montgomery added. "You didn't exactly go easy on him in that simulation test, Föcker."

Roy frowned, but said nothing.

"He's a kid," Iverson said. "What can he do to jeopardize an officer's career?"

"I believe he was told that any time I spent mentoring him was a waste," Shiro answered, choosing his words carefully. "And possibly his need for additional attention, like tutoring, was detracting from my own work."

"Cut to the chase," Montgomery said, finger tapping on the table. "Any idea who?"  

Shiro took a breath, knowing he'd be speaking of a superior officer, even if retired. He simply couldn't keep a secret that might raise its head again to damage Keith. "This is my speculation, because Cadet Kogane didn't finish the word, but I believe he'd been about to name Dr Dunkirk."

Iverson tapped on his phone, raising it to his ear. "Emily, find out for me if Keith Kogane has had a student meeting with Dunkirk." A minute passed, then Iverson grunted and set down the phone. "Two weeks ago, a half-hour session."

Shiro racked his brains. That would mean the thought was in Keith's head already, when Dr Holt had come to speak with Shiro. He'd thought Keith had been out-of-sorts the next morning. That reminded him. "Dunkirk was also an observer for Keith's group, during the flight simulation system tests."

"Not originally," LaSalle said. "He asked to switch with Mikhailova, once I'd announced the sorting." She looked troubled. "I figured he had good reason."

"No wonder." Shiro fought down the rising fury. "Keith—Cadet Kogane—"

"He was trying to fly like he was just one more pilot," Föcker said. "Kid was attempting to fake being nothing special."

Shiro had to say it. "Dunkirk praised him for it."

"Dunkirk wanted the kid to quit and walk away, too." Föcker waved a hand, dismissing the entire conversation. "Get rid of him, Mitch. There's got to plenty of others with his skills. I don't need one who's going to cut down potential pilots."

"I'm not firing someone on your say-so," Iverson snapped.

"Sure thing. Talk to him, then." Föcker's tone was bored. "I didn't order him off observation 'cause I didn't like his shoes. I had reason. Seems to me I had more reason than I realized."

"I _will_ talk to him," Iverson assured Shiro. "But you, lieutenant— _you_ are going to put that temper back in its cage. I don't want to hear a _peep_ out of _anyone_ about you doing any taking to Dunkirk, yourself."

"Sir." Shiro didn't salute, but he was tempted.

"Fine. Dismissed."

Shiro stood and saluted. Iverson just glared at him. Shiro was about to shut the door when Föcker joined him.

"I don't need to stay," Föcker said. "I need coffee, anyway. Meetings bore me."

They walked in silence most of the way to the cafeteria. Shiro checked his watch. Only a few minutes to get to the simulation room for the jet fighter class.

Föcker clapped him on the shoulder. "Everything squared away? Kid got his head screwed on right, now?"

"I believe so. We talked, did some hiking, talked some more. I think we made progress."

"Maybe." Föcker shoved his hands in his pockets. "But maybe it proves me right."

"What does?"

"Do you really think if anyone else had gone after him, he would've come back?"

Bristling, Shiro protested, "He's got the potential to be—"

"I know that's why you went after him, or at least, I know that's what you tell yourself." Föcker shrugged. "But that's got nothing to do with why he came back. Someday you need to get that through your head." He strolled off without waiting for Shiro's answer, waving one hand over his shoulder without looking back.

Shiro wasn't sure whether to punch the wall or grin at his old mentor's obstinance. He had to settle for heading to his next class.

 

 

 

It took a day of apologizing for incomplete homework, a night of scrambling to catch up on the notes Keith had only half-heartedly taken, and a few more days to get used to the noise. At least the library was quiet.

By the following monday, life had returned to whatever passed for normal. In the few moments of peace—running the track with Shiro, or late at night after checking his phone one last time—Keith had to admit it wasn't that bad. He still wondered about the announcement of Dr Dunkirk's retirement, and the arrival of a new school psychologist, but as long as he wasn't being forced to talk to the person, he didn't care.

Wednesday, Shiro had a dawn hop, and Keith dragged himself to the gym anyway. Breakfast with his team, classes, lunch, self-defense without Shiro, and another simulation test from Montgomery. Between Janvi's ideas for tweaking the system and Luiz calling out the timing, Keith chopped their flight time down by fifteen seconds. Montgomery was livid, but they'd made sure there was no room for complaints.

At dinner, Shiro still hadn't appeared. Probably sleeping after the exhausting hop, and Keith wondered how to ask to join Shiro on his next Saturday hop. Dinner had an odd feeling, with Luiz insisting Keith not eat so much, while Janvi kept checking her phone.

When Keith stood up, Luiz shoved the last potato chip in his mouth and hopped up as well. He gave Janvi a pointed look, and she nodded, bending her head to her phone.

"I'm heading to study group," Keith said. "Are you coming?"

"Be right there," Janvi said.

"Hey," Luiz caught Keith by the elbow. "You have the flashcards for the last section in Ryu's class?"

"In my room," Keith said. They'd tested on that section the friday before, and he'd set the cards aside as done.

"Could I borrow them?" Luiz dropped his silverware in the bucket, and set his tray on the stack.

"I can bring them to class tomorrow." Keith brought out his tablet to set a reminder.

"No, I just wanted to check something with Hernandez. Any chance you can bring them to study group?" Luiz grinned. "You know I can't sleep when I've got a question in my head."

Keith shrugged. "I guess." He preferred being early so he didn't end up with his back to the door, but he couldn't deny Luiz, either. "Save me a seat."

"The usual, of course." Luiz waved and headed for the library.

Keith retrieved the cards from his room, and tucked them away with the set he'd begun making on Monday. He had to smile at himself, walking the halls with his head down, busy checking text messages.

One from Shiro, saying the debriefing had gone long but he'd be at the study group. Another from Hernandez, reminding everyone the group had been temporarily moved to a different library conference room.

Keith followed the signs in the library, puzzled when he didn't see any of the rest of the group. The room was off the back corridor of the library, and the hallway was deserted. He found the door, and checked the message to make sure it was the right room. There was no glass in the door to see, so he pushed the door open slowly.

The screams had him nearly dropping his phone in shock, and he juggled it rapidly before getting ahold of it. The study group was ringed around a large table. Keith caught sight of colored streamers, and a cake on the table. Before he could back out and shut the door, Luiz caught him by the elbow.

"We have cake! And ice cream," he said, pushing Keith towards the table.

"Happy birthday," Janvi said, patting Keith on the shoulder as he passed.

"It's—" Belatedly he counted the days. He'd gotten so used to no one ever paying attention, he'd assumed the same would be true at the Garrison. "But how—" He nodded, uncertain, as Jae-Hee congratulated him, and Ana caught his hand and squeezed, and he stepped around them to find Shiro pulling out a chair.

"You're supposed to blow out candles, but we're not allowed to have open flame near the books," Shiro said.

Hernandez yelled from the other end of the room. "Fire door!" She let the door swing shut with a bang that had Keith almost leaping out of the chair.

Shiro caught Keith's shoulder, gripping firmly. "Ah, now it's safe," Shiro said, and bent over Keith to light the candles. "Ready?"

"Are you going to sing, too?" Keith had seen birthday cakes on television, and he knew he was supposed to blow out the candles at some point, but he'd never actually done it before. His fingers curled around his bag, nervously.

"Lights," Hernandez shouted, and the conference room's lights went off except for the EXIT sign over the door.

Shiro bent over to whisper in Keith's ear. "When the song's done, then you blow out all the candles in one breath. That's for good luck." He squeezed Keith's shoulder again, and let go as the group sang.

Keith had a feeling he was supposed to be mortified. It didn't help that Luiz had strong lungs and couldn't stay on tune. But it didn't take as long as he'd expected, and it wasn't as bad as he feared, either. He studied the cake, instead. Round, with white icing and blue piping. Fifteen candles arranged in a loose circle. The song finished.

"It helps if you stand up," Janvi said. "That way you don't get wax all over the cake."

Awkwardly, Keith stood up, took a deep breath, and blew. The group cheered, and Keith couldn't get the stupid grin off his face.

A moment later, one by one, each candle flared back into life.

"Are they supposed to do that?" Keith asked Luiz.

"I don't think so," Luiz said.

"Blow harder!" Hernandez yelled, from her place by the door, and shut the lights off again.

The third time the candles flared back into flame, Keith turned to look at Shiro. He'd backed up behind the group, leaning against the wall with a hand over his mouth, muffling his laughter. Keith rolled his eyes and proceeded to pinch out each of the candles with his fingers.

"It's still good luck, right?" Janvi asked Ana.

"Who cares, there's cake," Ana said.

It was not the most productive study group Keith had ever attended. And he couldn't recall a time he'd sat and talked with a group of people, actually laughing out loud at Jae-Hee's jokes, or Luiz' mimicry of Hernandez organizing the entire event. He was privately relieved that there were no gifts, because that would've been one thing too many. Cake and ice cream was enough of a rare treat, on its own.

When the library closed up for the night, the ice cream was gone, and the only remains of the cake were bits of icing from its edges. Keith was forbidden from cleaning, but he waited for Shiro. The two walked out together.

Keith's stomach was full, and his brain was sluggish. The noise had been exhausting, but strangely exhilarating. Not that he wanted that kind of thing every night, but it hadn't been bad. Shiro's muffled laugh distracted Keith from his meandering thoughts.

"What?" He asked, suspicious.

"The look on your face—" Shiro dropped his hand to hold his stomach, and bent over, laughing. "If only I'd had a camera—"

Keith rolled his eyes. "It wasn't that funny."

"You have no idea. You looked—" Shiro straightened up, took one look at Keith, and started laughing again.

A librarian walked past, glaring at both of them.

"Shiro." Keith prodded Shiro in the shoulder. He had to grit his teeth, or he might start laughing at what a dork Shiro was. "Don't ever do that to me again. I thought I'd done it wrong."

"You." Shiro slung his arm over Keith's shoulder, tugging him close. "You are honestly the only person I have ever met who would see trick candles and immediately assume you were doing it _wrong_."

"How was I supposed to know?" Keith elbowed Shiro, but half-heartedly.

At the elevator, Shiro sobered, turning Keith to face him, hands on Keith's shoulders. "Happy birthday. I can't wait to see what you do next."

"Get taller, hopefully," Keith said. He ducked his head, grinning when Shiro laughed.

"Get some sleep." The elevator doors opened, and Shiro released Keith. "And go see Iverson about that land-flyer's permit."  The doors slid shut.

Keith smiled to himself. Fifteen, and he'd get a flyer's permit.

In three years, he'd be eighteen. He'd graduate, join the military. Ask to be in Shiro's command.

And in six years, he'd be twenty-one and going to space at Shiro's side.


	20. Chapter 20

The days were getting shorter, the Garrison's Halloween festival coming fast on the tails of Keith's birthday. Flight teams usually did a theme for their costumes; Keith's team had chosen some trio of cartoon characters that Shiro didn't recognize. He got pictures anyway, despite Keith's self-conscious scowl. The pictures would go up on the Garrison's site for parents to see, and Shiro was quite content using that as an excuse.

When the ticket stand closed up for the night and Emily finally let Shiro go, he nearly tripped over the three in the hallway. They were cross-legged in a circle, bent over their various winnings from games the upperclass students had organized.

No reason to interrupt them. They'd probably be up all night from the sugar, and groggy the day after. Shiro had done it every year, himself, after all. That didn't stop him from pausing at the corner to catch another quick picture, ducking out of sight before they realized.

Another week, another hop, and Monday came around. Shiro had been excused from his teaching duties for the day. He met Keith at the gym as usual, but took enough time cleaning up after that Keith was nearly hopping in frustration that they'd be late to breakfast. Shiro had dressed in a newly-starched uniform; boots were polished, hair slicked back. Keith eyed him, muttering about inspection, dropping the topic when Shiro pointed out Keith's hair had gotten long enough to hit his collar again.

At ten, he presented himself at the main conference room, the only one large enough for the meeting. Dr Baxter had already arrived, with six of her engineers setting up laptops and confirming their connection to the massive screen at one end of the room. Shiro was considering which seat he should take, when Commanders Iverson and LaSalle entered.

"Here, Lieutenant," Iverson said, pointing to a seat in the middle of the table.

Shiro sat, not sure whether to be comforted or alarmed that this meant he'd be flanked by both commanders. He'd rather hoped this would be a quieter discussion, but someone must've decided to make a production out of it. Roy arrived, coffee in hand, settling down beside Iverson. On LaSalle's other side, Montgomery took a seat. Shiro kept his expression neutral, but he could feel the sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

John Martin entered, giving a perfunctory salute to the officers down the table—and a phalanx of brass were right behind him. Every officer in the room shot to their feet, salutes going back and forth as the six arrayed themselves on either side of John.

Two brigadiers, a major-general, one full bird, and two majors. The room filled with various greetings, some _sir_ and _ma'am,_ some _lieutenant_ or _commander,_ as lower ranks saluted and higher ranks nodded in acknowledgement. The civilian engineers remained seated, though Dr Baxter shook hands with the officers she hadn't met before.

At an unspoken cue that left the engineers puzzled, everyone sat. John chose the seat directly opposite Shiro, as the quasi-plaintiff. The two majors flanking him were both JAG. Shiro had quietly hoped the engineers' explanation would suffice, but if judge advocates were present, that meant someone was already thinking court-martial.

Iverson took control. "Before you two get into the legal terms, I'd like Dr Baxter to walk through the tests we did on the systems. Since you're raising questions about too-high scores, hopefully Dr Baxter can help explain any anomalies."

Dr Baxter stood with a smile, nodding to her assistant to start the presentation. She gave a quick overview of the simulators, skipping ahead when it was clear everyone had at least a basic grasp of the system. She paused on a slide that showed a line graph, so incredibly packed in the middle percentile it was almost a solid mass, tangling and interweaving from left to right.

The bottom quarter of the graph had no consistent line, though many dipped into the quarter, and a few ended. Shiro guessed that meant a rough spot, or a fail. In the top quarter, several lines climbed up from the middle, and fell back. Only two lines stayed consistently above the middle half.

"When we analyze our data," she said, "we frequently map to identify outliers. We decided to use this approach for this specific question, to begin right from the top with our conclusions. We see no reason to make you wait in suspense."

Dr Baxter swept a hand across the screen, picking out a line in the middle and highlighting it. The first dip was the student's sluggish start, this peak was at a better-than-average roll, and so on.

"Now, our tests revealed the system has gotten incrementally easier, comparatively," she noted. "The improvements in the g-force simulator cage have led to better pilot responsiveness, which was not as great seven years ago. To compensate for that, we took the scores over the past ten years and came up with an algorithm to adjust the results. This graph shows the comparison as though every student had used the same simulation unit."

Several of the brass shifted, frowning. Dr Baxter merely smiled and tapped a single line to highlight it. The line ran through the upper part of the middle, rising twice into the highest, but otherwise parallel to about a dozen other lines.

"This is Lieutenant Martin's score from seven years ago. And this…" Dr Baxter tapped the lower of the two lines, far above. "This is Lieutenant Shirogane's score."

"I thought he was the highest-scoring student pilot," one of the brigadier generals said. "Is that a control line, above it?"

"Oh, no." Dr Baxter gave a little shrug. "That's Cadet Kogane's scores."

 

 

 

Keith waited in the hallway for Janvi to come out of the bathroom, so they could head to engineering class together. Luiz had gone on ahead, of course, prepared to do battle with Professor Ryu over the one question he'd missed on the last exam. Three girls filed out of the bathroom, chattering about the handsome JAGs who'd arrived that morning.

By the time he and Janvi made it to engineering, the entire room was buzzing. Keith set down his bag, giving Luiz a puzzled look. If anyone knew the gossip, it'd be Luiz.

"Something about a possible court-martial," Luiz said. "Like, I heard there's like six generals."

"It's Professor Shirogane," Tim said, from the table behind them. He was the engineer for flight seventy-one. "My friend knows a fourth-year who says Shiro faked his scores."

"That's ridiculous," Janvi snapped. "He graduated like five years ago."

"I don't know." Tim shrugged, gave Keith an uncomfortable look, and bent his head to his tablet.

Keith twisted around in his seat as the meaning sunk in. "Was the fourth-year named Jamie?"

"Oh, not this again," Luiz muttered.

"I guess? I don't know." Tim pointed to his pilot, who'd just entered. "Laura might know. About the court-martial," he said, as she took the seat beside him.

"Oh. Yeah." Laura made a face. "I heard from a friend who's friends with one of the guys who hangs out with team thirty-three, they're third- and fourth-years, and Jamie's their pilot. My friend says it's been an open question, but now Jamie's brother has proof."

Janvi let out a low growl, and Laura looked up, startled. Luiz put up his hands. Keith shoved his bag at Luiz and bolted from the room. Luiz shouted, and Janvi yelled his name. Keith didn't wait.

The hallway traffic was easing as final stragglers got to their classrooms, and no one slowed Keith down. He left behind the pace he'd learned to run, alongside Shiro, and sprinted. He took the stairs, leaping over the banister-ends to save the extra steps. Far above him, quick footsteps clattered, but if they shouted, he refused to pay attention.

Fury ran through his veins, fire licking into his muscles. He tore down the main administrative wing, almost running Emily over. She yelped, then yelled his name. He didn't stop, hitting the broad doors at the end of the hall and throwing them open.

"Don't you court-martial Shiro! He's never cheated," Keith shouted, arms out.

Several uniforms came to their feet. Keith caught the lights' reflection off too many bars and badges on their chests.

"Cadet Kogane!" Iverson stood. "You are out of line—"

"If you're saying Shiro's a cheater, _you're_ out of line," Keith yelled back. "He doesn't _need_ to cheat—"

"This is Cadet Kogane?" A deeper voice said, from the far end of the table.

"Yeah!" Keith looked down the table, picking out the one face he recognized. The man's portrait hung beside Shiro's, permanently second-place. Keith pointed at him. "You're John Martin, and you only got 318. _Shiro_ got 418—"

Martin leaned forward. He and Shiro were among the few who hadn't stood or even reacted. "It's not possible to get 418—"

Keith slashed a hand through the air. "Well, _fuck_ _you_ , because I got 431!"    

"You? You're what, a second-year?" Martin laughed. "There we go. Shirogane does know how to game the system, and he's not even afraid to teach others. This kid's scores are proof."

"Proof? I'll prove you can't fly worth shit against _either_ of us." Keith let fury carry him through. He'd held back long enough. He'd planted his feet. There was no backing down. "You, me, and that simulator. _Now_. I'll show you a 431 and _raise_ it."

The room went perfectly silent, until Major Föcker drawled, "how high, fireball?"

Keith picked a number out of his head. "Ten."

"No good," Föcker said, startling several officers. "Fifteen or there's no point."

Keith wanted to throw something at the Major's head. Instead he ground out, " _Twenty_ , then."

"Now you're talking." Föcker stood up. "Looks like we need to commandeer the jet simulation room for a bit."

Martin glared at Keith, who lowered his chin, ready to launch himself forward if the man protested. One of the officers whispered in Martin's ear, and Martin nodded, looking away. Two of the high-rank officers leaned across the table to converse quietly with Iverson. When they straightened up, Iverson clapped Shiro on the shoulder.

"You, too," Iverson said. "Let's put this to bed."

Keith didn't move from the door until Shiro came alongside. Shiro didn't put a hand on him, nor even break his neutral expression, but when he glanced over, his eyes crinkled. It was as much approval and gratitude as Shiro could show, given the circumstances. Keith squared his shoulders and fell in behind.

The engineers came last, laptops in their arms, whispering amongst themselves. Keith looked back once, to see Föcker strolling between the much-shorter engineers. He seemed to be feeding them ideas. Keith was too focused on clearing his mind, and he barely gave a glance at Janvi and Luiz pressed up against the wall, watching the procession go by.

There was a twenty-minute delay at the flight simulator, while the class cleared out and the engineers took over. Several were typing as they walked, heads together. Another slight delay as the observing officers arranged themselves, and the engineers hooked up their laptops and got into the system.

Keith ended up along one railing, with Shiro on one side, Martin on the other. Keith was usually the first to slouch, if he could get away with it, but between Shiro and Martin, he found himself standing at attention, too. He didn't need Iverson's or LaSalle's pointed looks to know he'd put himself on the line. He'd already decided. He'd hold that line.

Dr Baxter stood by the center console, explaining the test. The engineers had made a quick adjustment, combining the viper tests with the modifications Föcker had used for Keith's first shadowing behind Shiro. The three would fly simultaneously, insubstantial to each other in terms of scoring, but present on the visuals.

In the pause between her explanation of the course, and Iverson taking over a quick briefing, Keith felt more than heard Shiro's slow exhale. And a whisper, too low for anyone but Keith to catch.

_Patience yields focus._

Keith took a deep breath as well, concentrating on Iverson's instructions. When Dr Baxter gave the signal, Keith headed for the unit assigned to him. Without a flight suit he couldn't buckle in, but someone had brought flight straps. Montgomery helped Keith climb into the straps, tightening the buckles and proclaiming him ready.

"Hey, Keith," Shiro called from the third unit, breaking the hushed mood. He stood with one hand on the simulation hatch. "I've been flying these things for real, now. The difference might be less than you expect."

Martin turned with a scowl, but Keith's banked fury transformed into something close to delight.

Keith grinned over his shoulder at Shiro. "Can't wait."

He settled into the simulation pod, adjusting his headset while Montgomery buckled him in. The door closed, and Keith put his hands on the side sticks. He wondered if he should take a deep breath, and decided there was no need. He flexed his feet, glad the garrison boots were broken-in enough to have as much play as his flight boots.

At the last second, he dug into his pockets for the gloves Shiro had given him, and tugged each on while an engineer droned through the pre-flight simulation check. The screen came up, showing the runway. Shiro and Martin were ahead of him, taxiing into place. Keith flexed his hands around the sticks, settling in.

When he lifted off, the pod threw him back with the force, and then he was in the sky, almost wingtip to wingtip with the two older pilots. He didn't wait, breaking vertical, and grinned to see Shiro right beside him. Martin was a split-second behind.

Six bandits for each of them. Shiro's and Martin's bandits were nearly translucent, impervious to Keith's actions. He only had to focus on his own, but he evaded the other twelve on instinct.

The ground and sky blurred. Lag displacement to shake a bandit, dropping into rolling scissors until the bandit fell away in a split-S. At least twice Keith fell into a combat spread with Shiro, before pulling out into a barrel roll attack. Immelmann, pitchback, wingover, break. A high-side pass, like a bird of prey dropping from the skies. His scatter pattern was wild, but he hung on until he took out the second bandit.

The maneuvers flowed, one into the next. Keith slammed the sticks forward, grinning at the simulation pod's artificial g-forces. The pod's simulation keened in his ears. The viper had speed and maneuverability, and Keith followed his instincts, pushing the system to its limits.

He leaned into a low yo-yo and pulled out, one eye always on the other two jets, tracking the bandits easily. Martin had three bandits left, Shiro had one. Keith had two left, though he'd only shot down two himself. He'd maneuvered the third and fourth into running into each other.

Shiro came screaming down from high overhead, and Keith fell in, using Shiro's pass to create a sandwich against both bandits. Fifth bandit down, while Shiro took his last. Keith broke off, coming around hard and taking out his last bandit. He slid sideways into a roll, evading the explosion.

Ahead of him, Shiro had gone into a barrel roll to avoid Martin. Keith yanked the sticks back, pulling the jet almost vertical. Martin veered off, and Keith threw the sticks forward, accelerating to pass Shiro, landing first down the runway. Shiro was right behind him.

The interior lights came up, and the hatch popped open. Keith got one buckle undone, struggling to reach the other, and Montgomery reached in, helping him get free. Keith climbed out, suddenly aware of the sweat drenching his uniform. His bangs were plastered to his forehead.  

Shiro was already waiting along the railing. He bumped Keith with his elbow. "Nice cobra," he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

A moment later Martin joined them. He looked nearly green. "Are you even human," he muttered.

Shiro chuckled. "Good thing he's one of us," he said.

"No shit," Martin said, awe obvious.

Iverson cleared his throat. The observing officers moved back, letting the engineers review the system's analysis.

Finally one engineer raised her head. "I guess I'll just list it off," she said. "Martin, 390. Shirogane, 449. Kogane, 445."

Keith made a face. He'd been aiming to break 450. Shiro nudged him, and Keith looked up to see Föcker studying him. Keith braced himself for the major's disappointment.

"Well, now we know your one weakness, fireball." Föcker smiled, a wry expression. "Your aim is for _shit._ "  

 

 

 

Shiro relaxed when Iverson dismissed the pilots. If there would be any consequences, they were out of his hands. He could only hope the engineers' open mouths and baffled whispering over their laptops would sway the brass into recognizing just what a rare pilot Keith was. Shiro had been willing to trust the right side would prevail in any accusations against himself, but he had to admit that having Keith blow the doors open had been satisfying, too.

Not the least of which was that as a student—with the title of cadet but in reality still a civilian—there was nothing the officers could do to Keith. When Shiro saluted Iverson, the man glared, and Shiro grinned, knowing Iverson was probably thinking the same. Shiro had a feeling there'd be KP in his future soon enough, just for mentoring a kid who'd so easily take years off Iverson's life.

He clapped Keith on the shoulder, and movement from the observation deck caught his eye. Luiz and Janvi had apparently cut their classes to watch. The thick glass blocked the sound, but someone must've left on the simulation room's speakers in the observation deck. Both kids were leaping up and down, fists in the air.

"Hey, don't look now," Shiro told Keith, "but you've got a cheering section."

"A what?" Keith looked around, then up, and flushed red. "Those two."

Shiro laughed and threw his arm around Keith's neck, pulling the kid around to walk backwards. Shiro waved up at Janvi and Luiz, then pointed at Keith, who gave him a mild glare. That just made Shiro grin wider. He gave the two kids a thumb's up, and pulled Keith backwards towards the service exit.

"Come on, looks like we're going to need Emily to sign excuse slips for all three of you." Shiro kept his arm over Keith's shoulder, as they headed down the long back corridor to the stairs. "You did good."

"I really was trying to break 450," Keith grumbled. "I could've done it, if we'd had the same course as before."

"Which is why that's not what we got." Shiro kept the good humor, though he kept one ear attuned for any sign that Keith would get down on himself again. "What you just took is closer to the real test. Except the part about seeing each other, or the other bandits. I think that was Roy's last-minute change. He likes encouraging competition."

"What competition? You made 449!"  

"Hey, I'm trying to be cool, here." Shiro tugged Keith close, relieved when Keith gave him a half-hearted shrug. "I managed to top the highest scorer ever. I should get a minute to bask."

"Bask in hell," Keith muttered, but he slipped a hand around Shiro's waist, tucking himself in under Shiro's shoulder. "That sandwich was pretty cool, though."

"We kicked ass."

"We kicked _Martin's_ ass," Keith amended.

Shiro laughed, and released Keith to shove open the doors to the stairs. They were halfway up the first flight when Janvi and Luiz came flying down the stairs to meet them, yelling in excitement the whole way. Keith backpedaled, hands up, but when Janvi hugged him, followed by Luiz, he wasn't frowning. He was laughing, as joyfully as any kid who'd just punched the living daylights out of a bunch of records in only his first year of flying.

"Alright, you three, let's get to Emily's office so you're legal," Shiro said, ushering them back up the stairs.

Luiz hooked his arm through Keith's, and Janvi did the same on the other side. They were already making him go through the entire flight test. At the next landing, Keith extricated himself with something too quiet to catch. Janvi and Luiz glanced past Keith to Shiro, who stood a few steps below. The two nodded, waved to Shiro, and headed up, leaving the two alone in the stairwell.

Keith turned, a thoughtful look on his face. "I know I lost my temper back there. Am I in trouble now?"

Shiro leaned against the railing, thinking it over. "Not sure. You're not formally enlisted yet, so you can hardly be brought up on charges of insubordination. Iverson might make us run laps around the base, though. Or assign KP. Just on general principle."

Keith looked dubious. "That doesn't seem like much."

"Iverson will make it enough, trust me." Shiro cocked his head. "Something bothering you?"

"Not really. Maybe." Keith made a face. "A little."

Shiro waited.

"It just seems…" Keith looked away; his fingers twitched, a nervous gesture. "I probably should've been thrown out already like ten times over. I keep screwing up, and you keep fixing things for me."

"First of all, you're not screwing up nearly as badly as you think, and second…" Shiro let the smile show. "You're worth the effort."

"You said that before, but—" Keith's hands went lax. He didn't look up. "I just can't believe it. I want to, but—I'm going to keep screwing up, I know it, and one day you'll get tired of it." He sighed. "Of me."

"Nope." Shiro shrugged. "Not gonna happen."

"It could. I keep—"

"Keith." Shiro pushed away from the railing. Two steps below Keith put them almost at eye-level. "You can keep worrying, if that's what you need to do. I'll just keep telling you the same thing. Whatever you want, tell me. You need something, tell me. I have your back. Always."

"What if it takes too many—what if I just can't believe you so easy?"

"Then I keep telling you." Shiro smiled. "As many times as it takes."

Keith stared at his feet for several heartbeats, looking up only as Shiro offered his hand. Keith gave it a puzzled look, then put his hand in Shiro's, expression clearing as Shiro opened his other arm, an invitation. Keith launched himself forward, catching Shiro around the shoulders, his face buried against Shiro's neck. Shiro grinned, squeezing Keith close. After a moment, Shiro relaxed his hold. Keith slowly leaned away, eyes glittering in the stairwell light.

Shiro made no mention of it; he stepped up beside Keith. "Let's get you back to class, fireball." 

Keith grumbled under his breath, and Shiro laughed. 


	21. epilogue

Shiro brought his viper around in a long, easy turn. "Halo flight, we're done for the day." The early morning sun limned his canopy in gold.

"Hell of a flight," Demo muttered, falling in behind and below Shiro. "Did they have to send all of the Marines?"

"Making sure you could get at least one hit in," Wizard said.

Toma laughed. "Remember, Demo, you see water, you went too far west."

"I'm gonna be the next lieutenant-in-command," Demo said, "and you're all gonna eat your words."

"You got three more hops to survive." Evil's grin was obvious. "Maybe Raptor will have mercy on us, and take you with him."

"Not a chance," Shiro said. "Halo flight to base, we're RTB." When base command confirmed the runway was clear, Shiro pushed his sticks forward and broke right. "See you on the flip side."

"Here he goes," Demo said.

Shiro grinned, bringing the jet in a low pass over the runway. The ground crew had gathered on the low berm edging the runway, and Shiro kept the jet just shy of mach-1 as he roared over their heads with maybe ten feet to spare.

He brought the jet around, and regarded his handiwork. At least half of the dozen crewmembers had ducked. Three had hit the ground, flat out. One figure stood off to the side, jacket flapping open, hands shading the face.

Shiro circled around as Wizard landed, touching down right behind her. "Demo, looks like my ride made it." He raised the canopy and tugged off his face-mask, letting it hang free as he taxied the viper back to its spot.

"No one ever rides with me twice," Demo complained.

"You need to learn it's the short one on the right," Wizard said. "I swear, you drive like a little old man from Kansas."

"He is from Kansas," Tamo said.

"Exactly my point."

Shiro laughed to himself and climbed out of the jet, hopping down to the tarmac. Keith was already gone, probably waiting in the hangar. After just shy of two years, Keith knew the drill.

Two hours later, Shiro threw on his flight jacket and strolled down to the hangar. His little red flyer was parked in its usual spot, Keith perched cross-legged on the seat, head down over his school tablet.

"Hair's getting long again," Shiro observed. "How'd you do on the flight test?"

Keith had looked up with a grin, but it quickly became a scowl. "449."

"And the next score after you?"

"300, but that's not the point." Keith closed his tablet and straddled the seat, sliding forward so Shiro could lift the seat to stow his gear, along with Keith's school bag. A second bag was strapped between the rear fins, a sign Keith had gotten permission for an overnight at his cabin.

"Still a fair distance." Shiro latched the seat and climbed on behind Keith. "That's what counts."

"What counts is that Föcker keeps changing the rules. How long is he gonna keep messing with the tests?" Keith fired up the flyer, letting it rise gently. He angled the nose around for the open hangar doors. "I would've hit 450 a year ago if he didn't keep messing with shit."

"Hey, where's the fun in that?" Shiro settled his chin on Keith's shoulder, grinning widely as Keith growled in the back of his throat.

Shiro settled his arms around Keith, tucking his fingers between Keith's thighs and the seat. It gave him leverage against sliding into Keith on a wild turn. Keith had shot up in his sixteenth year, but at just past seventeen, Shiro still had at least sixty pounds and seven inches on him, easy.

At least Keith's hand-me-down riding pants from Shiro were finally a proper length. He'd grown into the red racing boots, but he'd also gotten long enough in the body that Shiro's old jacket was noticeably shorter on him, now. Shiro made a note to try once again to talk Keith into a new jacket.

The flyer hummed sweetly along the airbase's main roads, keeping to a decent speed, to Shiro's relief. That one speeding ticket a month after Keith's sixteenth had been hell for Shiro. Iverson had taken it as a personal affront. He'd considered Shiro the obvious instigator, even though Shiro had been busy breaking the sound barrier forty thousand feet above.

Keith glanced over his shoulder. "So, how tired are you?"

"I'm awake. Aren't we heading to your cabin?"

"Yeah." Keith's smile turned speculative. "But I was looking at the map earlier, and I realized I've never actually seen cathedral rock."

Shiro couldn't stop the returning grin. "If you turn off to the right, up here, I'll show you a back way."

The rugged dirt road provided plenty of fun for Keith to navigate, with a little town at the halfway point. Not much more than a bump in the road, but it had a diner, and Shiro hadn't eaten more than a handful of pretzels since the night before.

The waitress set down their orders, looking them over and immediately pegging them both as military, despite their off-duty clothing. "Running late, boys? Rest of you's already well up the road by now."

"Different squadron," Shiro assured her, and rolled up the frybread taco. Still hot, not too much cheese. Just the way he liked it.

As always, Keith was a bit more circumspect. He investigated, judged it acceptable, then proceeded to inhale it. "What squadron is out there," he asked, halfway through his taco.

"Don't talk with your mouth full." Shiro rolled his eyes when Keith only grinned wider. "It's probably one of the engineering classes. They get dropped out in somewhere with broken equipment and no compass, and have get back to base by some designated time."

"Engineers," Keith scoffed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and his skepticism turned thoughtful. "Janvi would love that. I won't have to do that, right?"

Shiro stood, counting out enough cash and setting it on the table under the check. "Depends. You planning on being stuck at 449 for another two years?"

Keith spun around at the door to walk backwards, pushing it open with his shoulders. "You planning on walking to cathedral rock?"

"Don't even try it, kid." Shiro caught Keith by the head, twisting him to face forward. Keith laughed, and Shiro gave him a good-natured shove towards the waiting flyer.

They reached the canyons as the sun climbed to mid-afternoon. Wind and ancient water had scoured the land more fiercely, here, and the mesas rose almost five thousand feet up, some of them completely vertical. Shiro pointed Keith to the back trail and braced himself as Keith leaned low behind and gunned the throttle.

Halfway up the steep trail, the base ended and the rocks rose straight-up. Two promontories, with a saddle-point slice cut out of the middle, and a narrow column dividing that.

Keith whooped, sending the flyer straight up farther than Shiro had ever managed. It ran out of thrust just before the halfway point. Keith caught it just before stall, leaning hard and bringing it around. The flyer's nose came up as they fell back to earth. Keith bellied them out on a cushion of air with a few feet to spare.

When Keith brought the flyer around again after his fourth scalding, Shiro pointed at the central gap, bisected by the narrow column. "Long as you're here, might as well thread the saddle points."

Keith got the meaning immediately. He brought the flyer around, building up speed. A fraction of an instant before they hit the narrow slice between the two heights of cathedral rock, Keith threw himself sideways. Shiro rolled with him, and together their momentum flipped the flyer so the turbines were blasting air against the vertical rock.

To Shiro's surprise and a bit of delight, Keith didn't fly right through. He held onto the angle, forcing the flaps and cranking the throttle, bringing them around the central dike and through the narrower open slice on the other side.

Again, Keith caught it right at the edge of losing thrust. They passed through the gap and Keith evened the flyer out, twisting to follow the base around the promontories. Shiro made sure his heels were hooked on the foot pegs. There was no way Keith would ever consider one pass sufficient.

Sure enough, Keith soon brought them around again, only this time he continued through, leveling the flyer out as the ground fell away beneath them. Keith leaned back, cut the throttles, letting the flyer drop fast enough to send Shiro's stomach into his throat. At the last second, Keith twisted the throttle and kicked up the rudders. The flyer bottomed out, rose, twisted sideways, and Keith threw himself into a rapid descent, weaving back and forth between and over rock outcroppings and scrubby desert bushes.

A glint in the distance caught Shiro's attention. The sun's reflection hit the small object twice more as Keith threw the flyer back and forth, gaining speed as they lost altitude. The flyer roared over the small creek, splashing water up behind them, and they were back on solid, level ground.

And flying right through a Garrison engineering exercise.

"Shit. Busted." No point in trying to hide it. Shiro sat up straight, and gave Iverson a sharp salute, as Keith ran the flyer right through the middle of the day camp.

If Iverson yelled, they didn't stick around to find out. Keith threw the flyer into its lowest gear, pushing the turbines and powering them out of there. Shiro glanced over his shoulder, once.

"No one following?" Keith asked.

"Why bother," Shiro said. "He'll find us on Monday morning." He checked his watch. "We won't be back before nightfall. Pull over, I'll fly us back."

"I can do it," Keith protested, but he did stop.

"You don't know the terrain." Shiro slid forward, waiting as Keith climbed on behind him and got comfortable. "Besides, as long as we'll be running laps and doing KP all the way to winter holidays, might as well make it worth it."

With that, he flew them right off the plateau's edge, grinning as Keith hollered in shock. Two thousand feet, straight down.

Shiro nearly stood on the foot pegs, jerking the flyer back and then forward, leveling them out just before they smashed into the glassy canyon creek. He banked the flyer, bringing it around the canyon to eat up the momentum, and promptly fired it up again, scalding the canyon wall opposite.

Keith's arms were tight around his waist, and Shiro patted Keith's hands, checking. He just laughed when Keith hollered for him to do it again. Instead, Shiro took off down the canyon, using the creek as a highway. There'd be a crevice a few miles down, if he remembered right, and that dirt road would lead them back up to the plateau.

Iverson was already going to dress them down for at least an hour, with lectures nine, thirteen, and possibly twenty-two. Besides, the best route to the cabin would bring them right pass the needles, and it'd been a few years since Shiro had threaded them.

 

 

 

It wasn't really a surprise when Iverson yanked Keith out of his third class for a thorough dressing-down. Keith did his best to be as stoic as Shiro, beside him. It actually wasn't hard. It was twice as long as the lecture that time Keith got caught speeding on base, but Iverson was all noise, compared to his mother.

Grandmother Iverson—she'd insisted, to Keith's dismay—lived outside town. Keith had been sent to stay with her his first summer, while Garrison was out of session and Iverson was busy with graduate testing. She worked as a consultant, and had a schedule so unchanging it was written in ink and posted on the fridge, along with her grocery list and pictures of Iverson's three grown daughters. Once Keith had wrested from her the right to contribute by doing some of the chores, they'd gotten along reasonably well, and he'd gone back for the following summer.

Keith's one flaw was forgetting to pick up his feet when he ran up the stairs. Grandmother Iverson's office door would open before he'd reached the top, and he'd look up to see her glaring at him. She was three times his age and a half-head shorter than him, but that glare over her glasses could reduce him to nothing. It'd taken hours to recover, the first time.

True, Iverson's yelling did give Keith a headache, but it was still easier to handle than that disappointed glare.

The commander had finished one lecture, launched into the second one with barely a breath, and hit his stride with the third. Keith kept an eye on the tiny digital clock on Iverson's computer screen. A half-hour had passed. Iverson had been red for awhile, but he was also starting to sweat.

Iverson paused, mid-word, pulled out a handkerchief, and mopped his forehead. Before he could start up again, Shiro spoke up.

"Sir," he said, so conversationally it startled Keith, "have you had your blood pressure checked recently?" He sounded almost concerned. "Just a thought. Sir."

Iverson froze. Keith did the same, seeing a family resemblance for the first time. Iverson's glare could've cut glass. Shiro smiled, brows raised.

"You—You—Get the _hell_ out of my office!" Iverson roared. "Both of you!"

It took Keith most of the administrative hallway before his own heartbeat got back under control. He had to elbow Shiro sharply, twice, before Shiro stopped grinning.

"Are you _trying_ to get us killed," Keith hissed.

"Totally worth it," Shiro said. "Go on, head to lunch. I've got to make some calls, but I'll be there in a bit."

Ten minutes later, Keith was at his team's usual table. He ate with one hand, checking for Janvi's notes from the class he'd missed. No quizzes, so that was good, although he would've liked to have seen the demonstration on jet fuels. Luiz and Janvi arrived a few minutes later, and of course Luiz had a thousand questions. He'd make sure Keith's version of events was all over school by end of the day.

But Keith didn't answer any, just shrugged and smiled.

"Oh, I get it," Janvi said, cutting off Luiz' thousandth question. "You were pulling crazy stunts on the flyer with Shiro again, weren't you."

"That's all?" Luiz deflated. "I was hoping it'd be something different, this time."

"We could get some fireworks and set them all off at the same time from the roof of the main building," Janvi suggested. "Would that be different enough for you?"

"Only if we make them ourselves," Luiz said. "If you're not going to tell us about Iverson, you can at least tell us if Shiro has gotten a date yet, right?"

Keith blinked, his mind abruptly veering off in the wrong direction.

"Launch date," Luiz clarified.

"Right," Keith said, coughing a bit on the last bite of his sandwich. Out at the cabin, with no one around for miles, Shiro would speak freely about the launch, some of which Keith was certain had to be top-secret. He repeated the only answer Shiro had given to anyone else. "Late spring. May, maybe June."

"School won't be out, then," Janvi said. "Besides, they'll launch from the coast."

"Maybe we can do a field trip to go see?" Luiz looked hopeful. "They do tours the day before, on the launch site. It's like, a family thing."

Keith wondered who Shiro would take. After that first and only time of talking about his childhood, Shiro had never again spoken of anyone in his family. Keith had grown accustomed to thinking of Shiro as a fellow orphan, just through different circumstances. At least Shiro had been true to his word, uninterested in dating anyone, so Keith didn't have to deal with watching someone else wish Shiro well before the space launch.

Janvi picked at her lasagna. "It's going to be wierd, being here without him." She made a face. "I was looking forward to having him as a flight instructor."

"I'd just like anyone to be our flight instructor, other than Vickers," Luiz said. "It's too bad Montgomery had to retire."

Keith couldn't hide the grin, and a moment later a smile spread across Janvi's face, too. Luiz looked back and forth between them, catching on. They'd sent one flight instructor around the bend. No reason to go easy on the next.

"Do I even want to know," Shiro said, over their heads. He set his tray down in the space they always left for him. "You three grinning like that usually means shit is about to blow up."

"Not us," Janvi said, brows arched.

"That's it!" Luiz stuck a finger in the air, opened his mouth, and closed it when Shiro threw him a look. "Okay, I'll text it." He immediately did so, and Keith's phone beeped.

 _Smoke bombs in the shuttle simulator_ , Luiz texted.

A second later, Janvi replied: _I can get everything we need at the hardware store in town._

Keith agreed, and a moment later all three set down their phones.

"Thank you for letting me live in ignorance," Shiro said. "One three-part lecture today was enough for me."

After lunch came advanced physics, then astronomical navigation. Keith had made it to fourth-year, only to find the administration had denied his flight's request for Shiro's class. At least Keith got to see Shiro in self-defense class. Unfortunately, again, not as Shiro's student. Keith had tested high enough that Instructor Chan had assigned Keith to helping with the second-years.

Between class and dinner, Keith swung by his room to get his flashcards from the previous year. One of the second-years had Cohen and Palmer, and Keith had offered the cards, if they'd help. It felt strange for the study group to meet without Hernandez there. She'd graduated and gone to work on the space station. But Keith also rather liked the idea that it was now his turn to help someone else.

From dinner to study group, a comfortable routine that Keith had grown to appreciate. It had taken long enough for it to feel second-nature, and he'd never be the most sociable person, but sometimes he dared just a sliver of contentment at where he'd ended up. It didn't hurt that he'd finally found his footing, grade-wise. He still struggled to manage straight As, but he was close enough that he no longer panicked over losing his place in the jet fighter group.

"Keith," Shiro said, as everyone gathered up their books and dispersed for the night. "I want to show you something." He picked up his satchel, and a long duffel bag.

The library was closing up for the night, and the librarians waved as the two passed. Keith eyed the bag, curious, but Shiro didn't seem inclined to explain.

"Did you get the text from Iverson?" Shiro asked, when they reached the back stairs.

Keith pulled out his phone. "Ten laps, for ten days?" He groaned. "That's going to take forever." A single lap around the Garrison's exterior perimeter was a mile. "Do you think we can convince him to let us do five laps for twenty days again, instead?"

"Somehow, I doubt it. Best to lay low and get it over with. The mood he's in, he might double it if we look at him sideways."

Keith scowled. "That's your fault, you know."

Shiro grinned and shoved open the fire doors at the top of the stairs, leading Keith out onto the Garrison's roof. The banks of solar panels glinted in the star light. The Garrison always shut down its lights for two hours, for the astronomy classes. Shiro had brought Keith up to see the stars before, but this time felt different.

At the front edge of the roof, Shiro unpacked the bag, setting up a telescope. Much larger than the ones the students used, it took both of them to put it together and raise it onto the tripod.

"Professor Singh left this behind, when he retired." Shiro patted it fondly. "I kept meaning to bring it out to the cabin, but then the battery pack died. Took me awhile to save up for a replacement."

Keith waited while Shiro plugged everything in. Shiro bent to look through the telescope, swiveling around until he found what he wanted. He leaned back with a pleased smile, gesturing Keith closer.

"I don't see anything." Keith studied the dark patch of space, finally seeing the grayish spot. "What am I looking at?"

"That's where I'll be." Shiro's smile in the starlight was touched by a longing Keith had never truly understood, but had accepted as part of Shiro. "By this time next year, you can look up and know where I am."

"You do have a launch date," Keith guessed.

"June twenty-eighth." Shiro shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels to look up at the sky. "I'll be here for the holidays, and then I leave for the coastal base. It's not a short hop, so there's a lot more preparation than usual."

"But you're not leaving until—" Keith broke off, unable to protest more than that.

Shiro had been working towards this for almost two years. He'd assisted Dr Holt with the preliminary presentations to UN Space top brass. He'd been gone for weeks at time, every summer, for planning sessions. He'd even done a half-dozen one-week stints at the UN Space airbase, helping test some top-secret shuttle designs. None of it was really a surprise.

"You'll be fine." Shiro slung an arm over Keith's shoulders. "You're a long way from that kid I first met."

"Not half as long away as you'll be..." Keith forced his chin up. "I'm excited for you, and proud, but I just…" For the first time since Shiro had first mentioned the possibility, Keith found the strength to admit the truth. "I'm going to miss you. More than anything."

"Likewise," Shiro said, and squeezed him close. "You've gotten too tall."

"Took long enough." Keith's head just barely reached Shiro's chin. So he was no longer so short he could tuck neatly up against Shiro while they watched bad movies on Saturday nights. He'd made up for that with the discovery he could elbow Shiro neatly in the ribs, and hit one of Shiro's few ticklish spots.

"Yeah, I am going to miss you," Shiro said, softly. His head was up, watching the stars wheel overhead. "But I'll be back for your graduation. And you haven't forgotten our agreement, right?"

Keith gave Shiro a sideways glance, choosing to tease, instead. "You really want to do shuttle flights, after making it that far? I mean, you might find it boring."

"Never." Shiro shrugged. "We'll just have to come with a reason to go back. I mean, if we can reach Kerberos, why not the Kuiper belt? Are you really going to tell me an asteroid field is boring?"

"Depends on how fast I'm going."

Shiro laughed. "A year will go by faster than you realize. I know it's going to be tough, but don't forget there's people here for you, while I'm gone."

"It's not the same," Keith whispered.

"I know. Dr Holt and his son are good people, but neither of them could ever be you." Shiro sighed, and leaned his head against Keith's. "This one time, I'll be gone. But when I get back, next time I go, I'm taking you with me."

"Don't forget that."

"Never." Shiro released him with a grin. "Okay, we've got about an hour before someone locks us out, so might as well use this monstrosity." He bent to the telescope, moving it one way, then the other, a few times lifting his head to check.

"I'm not falling for the satellite-as-asteroid trick again," Keith warned him.

Shiro gave him an innocent look, and beckoned him closer. "Name that planetary system," he said.

Keith studied it for a moment. "Upsilon Andromedae." He shifted the telescope around, finding another. "Your turn," he said.

Shiro needed only a glance. "70 Virginis. Too easy." He grinned mischievously. "Okay, try this one…"

An hour later, the guard heard their voices, and came to remind them it was curfew. They packed up the telescope under the guard's bored gaze. There was little to say as they made their way down the stairs, the same comfortable silence they'd cultivated over so many weekends at Keith's cabin. At Keith's floor, they parted, with reminders to set their alarms early for their morning laps.

Keith's room was dark, and he didn't bother turning on the lights, preferring to watch the stars outside his window. He lay on his bed, fully dressed, trying to imagine a year without Shiro so close by.

Eventually he rolled over, toed off his boots and figured that was enough effort. He tucked his pillow under his head, and his eyes drifted closed.

He dreamed of the stars, at Shiro's side, and when he woke in the morning, he was smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The slight delay in posting was, honestly, because I didn't really want to end this story. That's a rare thing for me, but there it is. It's been a delight to write, and so many thanks to everyone who's read and commented. Your wonderful comments and reactions gave me happy thoughts, warm fuzzies, and many ideas. Without all of you, this probably would've been a much shorter story, except you kept asking for more. But as I assured so many of you, I wanted to make sure it'd end in a good place. 
> 
> For anyone wondering, there's also **The Uncertain Hour** , which is post-S4, and a pre-canon one-shot called **The Agreement** , which is about Shiro in his first days at the Garrison, if you need something else to tide you over. <3 
> 
> And lastly: you're always welcome to [come by and say hello on tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/sol1056)


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